*,*.  -* 


Tales  of  the  Minister  Festivals. 


THE  CARD-DRAWER, 


THE  HALF-SIR, 


SUIL  DHUY,  THE  COINER. 


GERALD     GRIFFIN, 

AUTHOR  OP   "  THE  COLLEGIAXS,"  ETC. 

• j/-^ 


.^l  E  W  YORK: 
D.  &  J.  SADLIER  &  CO.,  16^  Wtt.lIAM  STREET. 

MONTREAL:     CO-     ^iT  VOTK^   ,.AM^,  i  ...  ,<^Ea.XCIS  iAVTER  STS. 


Santa  Barbara,  Califorma 


Scrj^(3i 


INTRODUCTION 

TO  THE  SECOND  SERlESw 


Tmi:  tide  was  almost  out  when  I  arrived,  in  the  summer 
which  has  just  gone  by,  on  the  eastern  shore  of  the  bay  of 
Bealcraigh  or  Scagh,  which  runs  into  the  wildest  portion  of 
the  county  of  Clare,  within  several  miles  of  ihe  mouth  of 
the  Shannon.  I  had  proposed  taking  in  my  route  up  the 
river  the  celebrated  isle  of  Scattcry,  which  now  looked  dim 
and  distant  with  its  round  tower  and  ruined  clunvhos,  near  tiie 
mouth  of  the  bay.  It  was  with  no  little  chagrin,  therefore, 
1  discovered  that  not  a  single  boat  on  the  shore  would  float 
for  several  iiours,  after  the  lapse  of  wliich,  as  I  was  informed 
by  a  smart  little  cliild,  with  iier  gown  turned  up  in  a  wo- 
manly fashion  over  her  head — "  the  boatman  would  lay  jiq 
any  where  down  the  river  I'd  like,  an'  welcome,  without  a 
hai'p'ny  expense;"  but  it  would  be  too  late  to  stop  at  St. 
Sinon's  isle. 

There  was  little,  moreover,  in  the  scenery  which  imme- 
diately surrounded  me  that  could  furnish  sufficient  employ- 
ment to  keep  off  the  demon  of  ennui,  during  the  slow  and 
creeping  progress  of  the  glassy  tide.  A  black-looking  coun- 
try, covei'cd  as  far  as  my  eye  could  reach,  all  round  the 
spacious  bay,  with  numerous  turf-yards  and  farm-houses  of 
the  humblest  description,  possessing  wildnrss  without  gran- 
deur, ard  lameness  without  beauty — destitute  even  of  tho 
lea."5t  [larticles  of  foliage — however  amusing  it  uiight  aj)pear 
lo  the  travellci  fro.u  its  novelty,  would  atibrd  ;t  poor  suii- 
ject  for  the  pencil  of  the  ilraughtsmau  ;  and,  modestly  call- 


IT  INTRODUCTION. 

ing  to  mind  how  very  indiflVrently  liiiKlscapos  of  real 
beauty  had  fared  under  iny  pencil,  1  jirudently  calculated 
that  the  result  of  a  similar  operation  in  the  present  in- 
stance could  not  be  very  interesting. 

Vv'hile  I  loitered,  therefore,  along  the  ;Uiore,  crushing  tho 
Ccist  crab-shells  and  withered  sea-  weed  under  my  feet,  watch- 
ing a  group  of  country  people  and  turf  boatmen  who  were 
luiuling  one  of  their  heavy  open  craft  (which  lay  at  some 
di?t;ince  bedded  on  her  side  in  the  slob),  will*  potatoes  for 
some  inland  market,  and  turning  an  impatient  glance  cu 
the  silent  waiter,  as  it  stole  by  half  inches  over  the  dun  and 
weary  extent  of  level  mud  that  spread  between  the  strand 
and  chavinel,  and  gradually  bi^gan  to  fill  the  ruts  and  foot- 
prints about  the  vessel's  keel,  my  attention  was  arrested  by 
the  sourid  of  a  f 'male  voice  at  a  few  paces  behiiid. 

I  turned  round,  and  was  presently  accosted  by  a  modest- 
looking  woman,  neatly  dressed  in  the  scarlet  far-trinnned 
cloak,  clean  \\hite  cap  and  ribbon,  which  are  popular  among 
tho  cottage  fashiunables.  Ilcr  business  was  to  inform  mc, 
that  her  liusband,  Patcy  JMagrath  (the  word  was  spoken 
with  a  slight  confusion  and  downcast  timidity  of  manner, 
wl  idi  intimated  that  he  had  not  lang  enjoyed  that  blisbfiil 
title,)  the  owner  of  the  boat,  and  of  a  neat  cottage  which 
lay  convenient,  seeing  a  straiigc  gentleman  walking  en  tiie 
Btrand.  Iiad  bid  her  say,  that  he'd  take  it  as  a  favour,  if  TJ 
just  step  in  and  take  a  chair,  until  the  boat  would  be  afloat, 
when  the  boy  would  be  sure  to  let  me  know. 

I  accepted  the  invitation,  with  smt^ille  acknowledgments, 
and,  following  my  tidy  conductress,  w^is  presently  shown 
into  a  neat,  boarded  room,  furnished  with  u  few  wooden 
chairs,  an  old  Gothic-panelled  press,  a  tew  blghly-coluurcd 
religious  jjrints,  and  a  plain  oak  table,  noai*  which  was  seated 
a  personage  of  so  singular  an  appearance,  that  I  shall  ven- 
ture to  describe  him  at  full  length. 

He  was  an  old  man — uufortiinatcly,  a  sour  old  raan — ' 
Ici'.n  and  long-limbed,  and  affecting,  as  much  3-s  he  p'issibly 


nTXUOPUCTION.  -v 

might,  wiflioiit  ler.ueriiig  Linisi'lf  absolutely  ridiculous,  a 
costume  wliich  appeared  to  me  to  bear  a  close  resemblance 
to  some  of  the  most  antique  of  our  national  liabiiiments. 
His  pantaloons,  wliicli  iu  younger  days  might  have  fitted 
tight  on  the  limbs  over  which  they  now  lay  lapped  in  many 
an  ungainly  fold,  might  have  passed,  but  for  its  singleness 
of  hue,  for  an  ancient  tniis — his  hat,  which  now  lay  on  the 
table,  broad  brimmed  and  conical  in  the  crown,  seemed  but 
another  foshion  of  the  birredc  of  the  Ollamh — his  hair  was 
tluown  back  on  all  sides  from  his  brow  and  face,  so  as  to 
f  11  ill  the  form  of  a  glib  on  the  neck  behind — and  his  cloak 
(rather  perhaps  from  his  manner  of  wearing  it  than  from  iis 
acturd  form)  might  not  inaptly  be  compared  to  the  Milesian 
fillead. 

Near  the  window,  which  looked  on  the  bay,  sat  a  respect- 
able looking,  middle-aged  woman,  of  a  gentle,  pleasing 
conntenance,  which  slil!  retained  all  the  elements  of  beauty, 
although  tile  weeds  of  widowhood,  which  tlie  possessor  wore, 
and  the  pale  i;lie(;k  and  sobered  glance  which  harmonized 
with  them  so  sweetly,  yet  so  mournfully,  showed  that  the 
days  had  gone  by  when  she  valued  the  endowment.  She 
rose  from  her  seat  as  I  entered,  and  received  me  with  a  low 
courtesy  and  smile  of  welcome,  aficr  which  she  resumed  her 
place  and  her  knitting  in  silence.  The  strange  gentleman 
merely  measured  my  person  with  a  sullen  and  supercilious 
eye,  and  continued  to  pore  over  a  tattered  volume  which  lay 
bcfoie  him. 

The  ungracious  tone  in  which  he  replied  to  an  apology 
made  him  by  my  eon'Iuctress,  for  the  delay  to  which  he  was 
unavoidably  subjected,  deterred  me  from  attempting  to  draw 
him  into  any  conversation,  and  wishing  to  detain  the  young 
woman,  who  appeared  to  be  the  only  social  individual  of 
the  three,  I  said,  looking  at  a  medal  which  was  suspended 
by  a  blue  ribbon  over  the  wooden  chimney-piece,  and  on 
which  I  could  discern  the  word  "  Trafalgar,'"'  with  the  data 
ol  poor  Nelson's  victoi'y  : — 


Vl  INTRODUCTrON. 

"  Your  Inisband  hns  served,  T  perceive?"  Artl  I  pointed 
with  my  finger  to  the  medal. 

"  Oh,  no,  Sir,"  she  replied,  laughing ;  "  passen  vv-hat  ser 
vice,  he  seen  aboord  llic  tiuf  boat  up  and  down  from  Lime- 
rick, I  believe  he  hasn't  a  liai'porth  to  tell  more  than 
meself." 

"  Why  do  you  laugh  ?" 

'•'  Because.  Sir,"  rei)lied  the  elder  matron,  who  sat  near 
the  window,  ■'  she  thought  what  an  old  Iiusijand  she'd  have 
in  Patcy,  if  lie  had  served  in  that  battle." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  I,  a  little  confused,  "and  I  ought  to  have 
recollected  it — and  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  see  so  pvetty  a 
girl  matched  with  an  old  man — "  (here  the  gentleman  at  the 
table  looked  at  me  askance,  inside  his  spectacles) — "  even 
though  ha  had  fought  by  the  side  of  our  great  hero." 

This  speech  restored  me  to  favour,  and  in  a  little  time  the 
younger  woman  informed  me  in  an  under  tone,  that  the 
medal  belonged  to  her  aunt  Dorgan's  husband,  who  had  died 
about  a  year  before,  and  whose  widow  (the  very  {)erson  who 
had  just  divined  the  cause  of  her  merriment)  had  resided 
with  her  husband  and  herself  since  their  marriage — an  event 
which,  she  iiitiniated  with  a  betoniing  blush  and  stammer, 
had  taken  place  about  t!ii-ee  mouths  since. 

"  That  meilal,  I  dare  say,"  said  1,  "  w;  s  an  honour  of 
which  he  was  very  proud." 

"  It  was  an  honour,  Sir.  that  nearly  cost  him  dear  enough, 
at  one  time,"  replied  my  informant. 

■'  How  was  that  ?" 

•'  I  will  tell  you  that,  Sn-,"  she  said,  in  a  half  whisper, 
"  wh(!n  my  aunt,  poor  woman,  laves  the  room,  as  she's  goeu 
at  this  minute,  and  she  nnghtn't  like  to  be  reminded  of  it, 
poor  creature." 

I  congratulated  myself  that  I  had  not  blundered  npon 
jiiese  awkward  reminiscences  in  society  where  fashion  and 
education  have  unhappily  fostered  a  morbid  retinen:ient  o\ 
fecUng,  and  where,  in  all  jnobabiUty,  a  more  distant  allusion 


IJiTIIODUCTION.  YH 

thnn  T  bad  here  maflo  would  liave  left  mo,  to  ar.swcr  for  a  hys- 
tci'ica!  passion  or  a  fainting  fit.  Wl'enthe  handsome  widow, 
in  a  little  lime  after,  Imd  drojipcd  licr  quiet  courtesy,  and 
left  tliC  room,  1  reminded  her  young  niece  of  the  promise 
I  had  received.  She  gave  me,  in  as  fl-w  words  as  possible, 
the  incidents  of  the  Iiish  seaman's  adventure — which  wrre 
affecting  in  themselves,  and  rendered  doubly  so  by  the  natu- 
ral and  feeling  manner  in  which  she  delivered  them. 

"  It  would  make  an  interesting  tale,"  said  I,  when  she 
had  concluded. 

The  elderly  gentleman  here  again  raised  his  head,  and 
peering  on  me  through  his  liaif-closcd  eye-lashcs,  with  a 
eneeiing  smile,  as  if  he  would  say,  "  you  know  a  great  dcid 
about  the  matter,  I  dare  swear" —  he  once  more  resumed 
his  studies. 

"Talking  of  talcs,"  I  continued,  wishing  to  analyse  the 
old  gentleman,  as  soon  as  we  were  left  alone  together,  which 
happened  shortly  after — "  it  is  surprising  that  while  so  many 
abb  pens  are  employed  in  delineating  the  manners  an;l 
scenery  of  all  other  parts  of  Ireland — this  unique  and  in- 
teresting people,  and  the  magnificent  wonders  of  their  cca- 1 
should  l.ave  altogether  escaped  attention." 

This  I  said  with  a  certiiin  tone  of  authority  and  loudness, 
as  if  to  compel  a  degree  of  deference  from  my  morose  com- 
panion. He  replied,  however,  in  a  gruff  tone,  and  without 
raising  his  eyes  from  the  book — "  I'm  very  glad  they  have, 
I'm  sure — I'd  be  veiy  sorry  it  was  otherwise." 

"  I  believe  you  are  rather  singular  in  that  opinion,"  said 
I,  "  and  it  is  fortunate  for  our  novelists  that  you  are  so. 
Tales  of  this  nature  are,  I  believe,  very  popular  at  present." 

''  I  have  something  else  to  do  besides  reading  them,"  he 
replied. 

"You  are  a  fortunate  man,"  said  I,  "  if  you  can  employ 
all  your  tiii.e  niore  profitably  and  agreeably.  For  my  part, 
I  am  of  opinion  that  they  might  be  made  the  vehicle  of  not 
only  very  agreeable,  but  very  useful  information.     Besides, 


Vill  INT-CDUCTION, 

they  thrcrw  a  trniii  of  plcacing  associations  around  the  poo- 
pie  whose  manners  they  describe,  which  never  fades  nor  ia 
forgotten,  and  which  is  found  to  serve  them  among  theit 
neighbour  nations  in  a  hundred  ways.  For  instance,  if  a 
Venetian,  or  a  I\rid-Lothianite,  and  a  JMunstcrman  were  ask- 
ing an  alms,  and  I  (a  citizen  of  the  world,  having  no  coun- 
try claims  with  any  of  the  three),  had  but  a  penny  to  give 
in  charity,  I  should  at  once  bestow  it  upon  the  Venetian  or  the 
Scot,  while  th-e  poor  Mnnsterman  might  go  empty-handed, 
because  his  birth-place  had  not  at  once  brought  to  my  re- 
collection the  delightful  Illusions  of  an  Otway  or  a  Jedediah 
Gleishbotham.  I  will  go  yet  farther  and  say,  that  the  con- 
scientious novelist,  supposing  that  he  drew  his  portraitures 
scrnpulausly  from  nature,  might  etfect  a  stHl  higher  purpose, 
lie  might  furnish  the  statesman  and  the  legislator  with  an 
'ndex  to  the  dispositions  and  habits  of  the  people  lie  was  to 
govern,  and  who  were  too  distant  for  personal  inquiry  ov 
ubservation." 

The  old  gentleman  appeared  to  like  my  pertinacity.  He 
wiped  his  S])cctacles,  put  them  into  tb.eir  case,  and  closed 
his  book  v/!iilc  I  was  speaking,  as  if  he  were  preparing  to 
take  my  hypothesis  to  pieces  at  his  leisure. 

"  You  are  like  the  music-master  in  Moliere,"  said  he, 
again  looking  at  me  with  hissniile  of  contemptuous  toleration, 
"•  who  attributes  all  the  wars,  famines,  pestilences,  I  believe, 
Climes,  murders,  and  all  other  miseries  and  enormities  by 
vhich  mankind  are  disgraced  and  punished,  to  a  want  of 
tlie  general  diffusion  of  musical  knowledge.  You  seem  to 
have  the  same  faith  m  the  iufliience  of  novels  that  he  had 
in  that  ot  cat-gut  and  rosin.  You  would,  I  suppose,  have 
a  typhus  fever,  or  a  scarcity  of  potatoes,  remedied  by  a 
sniait  tale,  wliilc  you  would  knock  a  general  insurrection  on 
the  head  with  a  runuuice  in  three  volumes !" 

"  Not  su  fist,"  said  1,  *■'  mine  was  no  sucli  Utojjian  fancy. 
I  gave  the  class  of  writers  in  question,  their  moderate  pro- 
poiiiou  of  vMic — bat  }ou  .ip^joar  to  bo  one  of  those  who 


— , ) 


INTRODUCTION'.  IX 

Einst  have  them  do  all  or  nothing — who — to  nse  one  of  oVii 
Irish  proverbs — if  a  man  were  to  carry  3'ou  on  his  back  froiii 
this  to  0' Bricn's-brldge,  would  fling  biiu  into  the  stream  fu! 
not  carrying  yon  over." 

"  I  am  one  of  those,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  who  ap- 
peared to  be  best  pleased  with  rough  usage,  "  who  think 
tliat  a  ruined  people  stand  in  need  of  a  more  potent  restora- 
tive than  an  old  wife's  story.  The  autiior  of  the  English 
Lexicon  said  of  a  conceited  dramatist,  who  attributed  some- 
thing of  a  similar  influence  to  one  ot  his  productions — '  that 
those  who  aflected  to  tliink  the  Church  of  England  in  danger, 
m  ight  aifect  to  think  that  a  play  could  save  it ;'  and  so  may 
I  now  say,  that  those  who  affect  to  think  that  the  condition 
of  Ireland  can  ever  b;3  made  prosperous,  may  also  affect  to 
think  rhat  such  an  alteration  may  be  brought  about  by  a 
novel.  Cut  if  such  a  ridiculous  idea  can  be  seriously  en- 
tertained for  an  instant,  this,  at  least,  is  certain — We  are 
in  no  wise  indebted  to  those  writers,  however  brilliant  their 
acquisitions  or  endowments  ma}'  be,  who.  professing  to  pre- 
sent faitliful  illustrations  of  the  minds  and  hearts  of  our 
countrymen,  greedily  rake  up  the  forgotten  superstitions  ot 
our  peasantry,  and  exhibit  the  result  of  their  ungracious  re- 
searches, the  unhappy  blemishes  of  our  island,  the  weak- 
nesses of  our  poor  uninstructed  peasantry,  over  which  de- 
cency and  good  feeling  would  have  tluown  a  veil,  to  the  eyes 
of  a  world,  that,  unfortunately  torus,  is  but  too  enger  to  seize 
every  occasion  for  mockery  and  upbraiding  against  our  for- 
lorn and  neglected  country," 

I  heard  tliis  with  a  disagreeable  consciousness,  for  Avhicli 
perhaps  the  reader  may  be  enabled  to  account  when  he  has 
perused  the  whole  of  these  volumes.  It  was  the  first  hit 
the  old  gentleman  made,  which  told  upon  my  conscience. 
I  rallied  speedily  however.  "  You  would  have  them  write 
then,"  said  I,  "on  the  plan  of  some  American  novelists, 
who  take  care  to  construct  tlu'ir  narrative,  so  as  that  they 
may  be  enabled  to  Jouathanize  all  the  virtues,  while  all  tha 
1* 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

villains  of  the  tale  shall  be  either  Tudians  or  Englishmen 
For  my  part,  I  believe,  and  I  am  proud  to  say  it,  the  great 
majority  of  my  countrymen  are  far  superior  to  that  nar- 
row-minded, national  conceit  which  cannot  relish  a  strong 
truth  (even  admitting  it  to  be  over-seasoned  for  the  sake 
ot'ej'ect,)  and  which  would  prefer  idle  flattery  to  instruction." 
"Nay,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  but  deal  fairly  with  us. 
Give  our  lights,  if  you  will  not  overlook  our  shadows.  I 
would  ask  you  with  FalstafF,  is  there  no  virtue  extant  ? 
Look  around,  and  say  whether  the  darkness  and  guilt  that 
forms  the  burthen  of  those  fictions  which  you  defend,  does 
not  far  overbear  the  actual  proportion  in  real  life  ?  Have 
not  our  bogs  and  mountains  their  scenes  of  quiet  contented 
virtue — of  noble  suffering — of  generous  forgiveness — of 
strong,  rude  intellect  and  constant  love,  to  match  the  '  black 
attone,'  of  turbulence — impatience — revenge — credulous 
folly,  and  licentious  passion  which  you  would  attribute  to 
them  ?  Or  if  the  idea  of  mirth  and  innocence,  and  milk 
and  water  be  so  closely  associated  in  their  eyes — let  them 
turn  to  the  Ireland  that  once  was — and  say,  whether  they  can- 
not find  there  a  theme  worthy  of  the  most  splendid  and 
varied  capabilities.  Are  there  not  materials  for  descriptive 
energy  in  the  sports  of  Tailton,  the  coshcrings  of  the  tio- 
seach,  and  the  concerts  of  the  crotaries  ?  Is  there  not  suffi- 
cient vai'iety  of  character,  comic,  tragic,  chivalrous,  and  pro- 
found, from  the  Daltin  up  to  the  Ard  righ  ?  Can  the  Jcrna 
of  the  Stagyrite,  and  Orpheus  of  Crotona — the  Juverna  of 
Juvenal,  Pomponius  Mela,  and  Solinus — the  luernia  of 
Ptolemy — the  Iris  of  Diodorus  Siculus — the  Iron  of  the  au- 
thor of  Gildas  Badonieus — the  lerne  of  Claudian,  of  Strabo, 
and  the  Stephen  of  Eizance — tlie  Ogygia  of  O'Flaherty  and 
Plutarch,"  [not  Plutarch  and  O'Fhdicrty]  "  the  Llibernia  of 
Caisar,  of  Pliny,  Tacitus  and  Orosius,  can  this  ancient  land 
afford  no  subject  for  the  imagination  of  the  writer  of  fiction 
among  the  sixteen  nations  desciiled  by  Mareianus  Hera- 
cleota.  in  his  tract  called  Perijtlous  ?" 


L_ 


INTUODUCTION.  XI 

"  This  leaves  Jenkiiison  and  the  cosmogony  far  in  tlia 
distance,"  said  I  in  my  own  mind,  surveying  my  companion 
with  a  certain  involuntary  feeling  of  snspition  wliich  I  have 
entertained  towards  very  learned  talkers  ever  since  I  read 
Goldsmith's  tale.  Before  I  could  reply,  my  hostess  entered 
to  tell  me,  that  the  boat  was  afloat,  and  I  saw,  on  luuking 
from  the  window,  the  men  tugging  hard  at  the  peak-hal- 
liard, while  the  loose  and  tarred  mainsail  flapped  in  the 
pleasant  westerly  wind  that  was  just  springing  up.  1  left 
the  antiquarian,  for  such  I  now  conjectured  him  to  be,  at 
his  studies,  and  hastened  on  board. 

The  reader  will  perceive  that  I  have  acted  on  the  hints 
furnished  by  my  hostess,  in  the  first  of  these  tales,  and 
should  they  meet  with  the  sunshine  of  his  approbation,  it 
may  be  easy  to  show,  before  long,  that  I  have  not  slept  on 
that  which  was  thiown  out  by  the  Periwinkle  of  the  bogs. 


•  SONNETS.— INTRODUCTORY. 


Friends,  far  away — and  late  in  life  exiled — 
Whene'er  these  scattered  pages  meet  your  gaze, 

Think  of  the  scenes  where  early  fortune  smiled — 
The  land  that  was  your  home  in  happier  days—. 
The  sloping  lawn,  to  which  the  tired  rays 

Of  evening  stole  o'er  Shannon's  sheeted  flood — 
The  hills  of  Clare,  that  in  its  softening  haze. 

Locked  vapour-like  and  dim — the  lonely  wood — 
Tbe  clitf-bound  Inch — the  chapel  in  the  gieii, 

"Waere  oft  with  bare  and  reverent  lovk.^  wa  stood, 

To  hear  th'  Eternal  truths— the  small,  dark  maze 
Of  the  wild  stream  that  clipp'd  the  blo.ssom'd  plain, 

And  toiling  throui^h  the  varied  solitude, 

Uprais'd  its  hundred  silver  tongues  and  babbled  praise. 


That  home  is  desolate! — our  quiet  hearth 
Is  ruinous  and  cold — and  many  a  sight 
And  many  a  sound  are  met  of  vulgar  mirth. 

Where  once  your  gentle  laughter  cheered  the  night- 
It  is  as  with  your  countiy.     The  calui  light 

Of  social  peace,  for  her  is  quenched  too 

Rude  Discord  blots  her  scenes  of  old  delight, 
Her  gentle  virtues  scared  away — like  you. 
Remember  her,  when  in  tliis  Tale  ye  meet 
The  story  of  a  struggimg  right — of  ties 

Fast  bound,  and  s\viftl3'  rent — of  joy — of  pain 

Legends,  which  by  the  cottage-fire  sound  sweet— 
Nor  let  the  hand  whi.ch  wakes  those  memories 
(In  faint,  but  fond  essay)  be  uiiremembered  then. 


CARD  DRAWING 


" Is  this  my  welcome  home?" — Soi'thernk. 


Those  who  are  deson'oclly  loiul  in  their  commendations  of 
the  gallantry  displayed  by  British  seamen  during  the  last 
war,  have  generally  been  willing  to  admit  that  those  sup- 
porters of  the  national  flag  whom  Ireland  sent  to  man  our 
fleets,  did  not  tread  the  decks  like  children.  We  shall, 
however,  content  ourselves  with  referring  our  readers  who 
may  be  curious  on  the  subject,  to  the  chronicle  of  i\Ir.  James, 
or  any  other  naval  Tacitus  of  the  day,  for  examples  of  the 
truth  of  the  observation,  as  we  wish  not  to  encumber  our 
slender  narrative  with  any  unnecessary  historical  detail. 

Wliethcr  Mr.  James  records  the  exploits  of  a  certain 
Duke  Dorgan,  a  young  sailor,  from  the  shores  of  Kerry, 
or  no,  I  am  not  aware  ;  but  it  is  not  likely  that  many  names 
have  been  enrolled  in  his  pages  more  distinguished  by  a  mo- 
dest valour  (such  as  contents  itself  with  doing  all  for  duty, 
and  nothing  for  vanity),  than  that  of  the  person  we  have 
just  mentioned.  The  result  of  his  professional  exertions, 
and  of  a  common-rate  prudence  (a  rare  naval  virtue  in  the 
present  day,  and  still  more  so  at  the  time  we  speak  of) 
was,  the  fortunate  arrival  of  the  young  man  on  his  native 
shores  M'ith  a  character  unspotted  by  any  act  of  insubordi- 
nation or  servility,  and  a  quantity  of  prize-money  suflicient 


16  CARD  DHAWrNG. 

(and  more  tbmi  siiulcicnt^)  to  supply  the  "  cli;\ir  days"  o( 
his  hfe,  with  every  comlort  that  necessity  suggested,  and 
every  hixury  to  which  his  limited  experience  in  that  way 
might  induce  him  to  aspire.  There  were  circumstances, 
however,  in  his  early  life,  which,  independent  of  any  view 
to  mere  personal  gratification,  made  liim  feel  happy  in  his 
competeuoe 

"  You  are  in  the  right,"  says  the  author  of  those  well- 
known  letters  published  in  the  name  of  Pope  Ginigauelli, 
"  engraft  the  Italian  gaiety  upon  the  Frencli :  it  is  the  way 
to  live  to  a  hundred."  In  like  manner  might  his  historian 
say  of  Duke  Dorgan,  that  he  engrafted  the  Irishman's  gai- 
rty  upon  the  sailor's,  and  produced  the  blossoms  of  the  one 
and  the  fruit  of  the  other,  in  such  abundance,  as  made  iiim 
highly  popular  among  his  messmates.  He  was,  to  speak 
in  less  figurative  language,  a  lively,  handsome,  clear  headed, 
intelligent  young  person,  with  a  round,  well-moulded 
frame,  bright  auburn  curling  hair,  and  a  hazel  eye  of  excel- 
ling shrewdness,  and  when  occasion  required,  of  sparkling 
violence  and  resolution,  indicating  a  mind  of  irregular 
strength,  and  a  heart  in  which  the  passions  had  not  been 
always  subjected,  notwithstanding  the  general  even  tenor 
of  his  life,  to  the  most  rigid  discipline.  But  as  the  reader 
may  observe  throughout  these  tales,  an  ambition  to  render 
them  almost  as  analogous  to  the  drama  as  Fielding  rendered 
his  to  the  epic,  (a  circumstance  in  which  the  public  taste 
sccnis.  fortunately,  to  coincide  with  our  inclination,)  we 
shall  allow  our  hero  to  introduce  himself,  m  the  fashionable 
manner,  in  the  course  of  an  incidental  scene,  which  took 
place  on  the  evening  when  his  vessel  arrived  in  the  offing 
of  Loup  Head,  the  well-known  point  of  land  which  forma 
the  northern  extremity  ot  ttie  shore  that  bounds  the  queen 
of  Irish  streamSv 

Thi«  part  of  the  coast  is  remarkable  for  some  wild  and 
striking  points  of  sccnrryj  similar,  in  its  general  character, 
to  those  by  which    nearly  the  whole  range  of  the  south- 


CARD  Dr.  A  WING.  1? 

west!  rn  const  is  distiiiguislicJ.  Tlic  travollcr  is  strucic  by 
the  bolchict^s  iind  rM^;gedncss  of  tlie  lofty  clitrs  which  oppose 
thoir  rocliy  etiriigth  to  the  waves  of  the  Atlnntie,  and  by 
the  ixingnitiide  of  the  caverns  underneath,  wliich,  previous 
to  the  late  vigorous  exertions  mcde  by  the  guardians  of  the 
revenue,  afioided  a  number  of  useful  natural  Marcroonis  to 
the  contrabandists  who  traded  to  and  from  the  Flushing 
const,  and  served  at  the  same  time  as  lurking-places  to  the 
seals,  the  liunting  of  which  constituted,  at  that  period,  one 
of  the  chief  sources  of  profit  to  the  fishermen  of  the  neigh- 
bouring vilingcs.  At  a  small  distance  from  the  light-house 
wliich  is  erected  at  the  head,  there  stood  during  tlie  war, 
one  of  those  signal  towers,  by  which  te!egTai)hic  intelligence 
was  transmitted  round  the  Cape,  as  far  as  Cork,  wh.ei.cver 
a  hottile  sail  ventured  within  the  influence  of  an  Irish  breeze 
in  the  offing;  and  still  farther  iu  the  direction  of  the  river's 
source  was  the  village  of  Kiibaha,  whose  commerce  con- 
sisted then,  as  well  as  at  present,  in  tuif,  transmitted  by 
boats  to  the  interior  of  the  country.  The  coast  is  very 
thickly  inhabited,  and  the  people  yet  preserve  in  a  great  de- 
gree, the  juimitivc  and  natural  manners  of  their  progenitors. 
Tliey  talk  Irish — kill  fish — go  to  sea  in  canoes — traffic  in 
kind — eat  potatoes  and  oaten  bread — and  exercise  them- 
selves in  offices  of  kindness  and  hospitality  towards  stran- 
gers. This  latter  virtue  has,  liowe^er,  in  some  parts  of  the 
region  sutlered  injury  from  the  erriux  of  bathers  (roai  the 
interior  in  the  summer  season,  which  taught  them  the  use 
and  convenience  of  ready  money,  in  preference  to  their  pa- 
triarchal modes  of  payment ;  and  gave  them,  unfortunately, 
a  more  decided  impression  of  its  value  than  was  consistent 
V  ith  the  general  character  of  JIunster  cottagers.  The  eflcct 
appears  to  have  been  similar  to  that  which  the  liberality  ol 
English  travellers  has  produced  on  the  Continent. 

But  that  portion  of  the  country  which  constitutes  the  ex- 
treme foulli-wGst,  and  which  is  almost  cut  off  from  the 
rcmaluder,  by  the  large  creek  or  bay  of  Scagh,  which  re- 


IS  CAUD  Dr.AWING. 

(\neoB  it  almost  to  a  peniiisnln,  presents  a  very  roiTi;irT<nMe 
contiMSt,  ill  the  condition  and  moral  character  of  its  iiihal)i- 
tants,  to  all  the  rest  of  IMinister — perhaps  we  might  say, 
Ireland.  The  country,  though  exceedingly  bleak  and  wild 
at  first  sight,  is  found  on  further  acquai:itance  to  be  well 
cultivated,  producing  oats,  potatoes,  and  flax  in  consider- 
able quantities.  On  ascending  any  eminence  and  looking 
around,  the  land  appears  to  the  travelU'r  to  be  little  better 
tlian  one  lonely  waste  of  bog — the  huts  or  mud  cottages 
being  of  the  general  colour  of  tlie  soil,  and  scai'cely  distin- 
guisliable  from  it,  while  the  whole  wears  a  dull  and  mono- 
tonous hue,  to  which  the  numerous  turf-reeks  scattered  over 
the  landscipe  contribute  in  a  great  degree.  On  closer  ob- 
servation, however,  he  begins  to  discern  innumerable  cluslei's 
of  Avigwam  mud  cabins,  some  of  an  unusual  size,  with 
thatched  bee-hive  roof,  corded  so  as  to  provide  against  the 
winter  storms.  The  inhabitants  are  all  of  one  class  ;  scarcely 
a  single  dwelling-  house  of  what  is  termed  a  respectable  ap- 
pearance existing  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  cottager — 

"  To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed." 

They  are  contradistinguished  from  Irish  landholders  in 
general,  by  their  apparent  poverty  and  real  wealth  (nnuiy  a 
ten-ant  of  clay  walls  being  able  without  much  inconvenience 
to  give  a  dowry  of  some  hundreds  to  iiis  daughter) — as  well 
as  by  their  regular  persevering  industry — their  extreme  ig- 
norance— their  want  of  curiosity  in  all  speculative  mat- 
ters— and  their  perfect  unacquaintance  with  those  popular 
themes  of  debate,  which  set  all  the  rest  of  the  island  by  tUc. 
ears.  They  till  their  gardens  quietly,  as  their  fatliers  did 
before  them — learn  little  and  care  for  less — obey  tlieir  prie.^t 
in  all  reasonable  matters,  and  pay  him  like  prince^' — go  to 
market  with  their  oats  and  potatoes — eat — diink — dance — 
laugh — sleep,  and  die.  They  have  no  tyrants — no  proc- 
tors— no  middlemen — no  demagogues — no  meetings — im 
politics.    Under  whatever  standard  the  hoiu  of  iusuircctiua 


CARD  lillAWIXG.  19 

is  sorndecl  tlirongli  oflier  part?  of  Irelnncl,  v.lictlicr  nndcr 
llock,  his  lady,  Starlii^lir.  Mooiishiiio,  or  Moll  Du}  !e,  its  cciio 
dies  into  silence  long  before  it  has  reached  the  jieace -accris- 
tonied  ears  of  this  primitive  people.  Limited  in  their  de- 
sires still  more  than  in  their  enjoyments,  the  political  condi- 
tion of  the  country  affects  them  but  little — and  they  are 
silent  even  on  the  eternal  topic  of  Catholic  Eniancipalion 
What  is  of  the  utmost  advantage,  so  far  as  the  p;'ace  and 
good  order  of  the  community  i  •  concerned,  there  are  very 
few  idle  young  men  in  the  country — as  the  tillage  of  their 
gardens  during  one  portion  of  the  year,  and  the  preparing 
of  sand  manure,  of  turf,  marketing,  and  making  kdp  on  the 
coast  during  the  remainder,  comiK'l  them  to  labour  hard  and 
continually.  The  tone  of  mind  which  the  people  display  is 
certainly  not  in  accordance  with  the  magnificent  natural 
wonders  which  abound  on  the  coast,  and  of  which  the  reader 
will  find  some  sketches  at  their  appropriate  places  in  the 
body  of  the  tale. 

If,  however,  the  object  of  all  improvement  in  science  or 
knowledge  be  to  increase  the  hapjjincss  of  men,  it  is  very 
questionable,  whether  it  would  be  acting  the  part  of  a  friend 
to  this  people,  to  wish  tl  at  they  should  be  deprived  of  the 
bliss  of  ignor'~.nce  and  comfort  in  wliic'i  tliey  are  at  present 
shrouded — S'  >  far  at  least  r  s  the  luxurie'S  of  life  are  concerned. 
Certainly,  v/e  express  no  inimical  sentiment  in  h(,i)ii)g  that 
it  may  be  long  before  they  are  split  and  sundered  into  ihe 
unsocial  distinctions  of  rank — before  they  prefer  elegant 
poverty  to  humble  comfort — before  a  selfish  landlord  (no  i:n- 
precedented  occurrence)  shall  scatter  the  peasantry  from 
their  happy,  lowly  homes — and  yeomanize  the  soil. 

On  the  evening  when  Dorgan's  ship  stood  towards  the 
mouth  of  the  river,  the  inmates  of  the  signal  tower  before 
mentioned  were  endeavouring  to  quicken  the  tardy-gaited 
hours  of  sunset,  by  all  the  contrivances  which  their  tastes 
and  opportunities  could  enable  them  to  use.  The  lieutenant 
of  the  water- guards  was  quietly  seated  iu  his  apartment 


20  CAi:d  Dr.AWixG. 

sippinj^  a  tnniljlcv  of  vvliat  he  called  &t[f  punch — with  his 
•waistcoat  tliro-«vn  cpcn,  his  logs  stretched  out,  ar.d  a  coohng 
sea  b)ceze  just  f^inuuig  the  long  hair  t'lat  shaded  h's  reci 
and  jolly  countenance.  lu  the  room  underneath,  were  two 
sailors  at  draughts  and  grog,  while  outside  the  open  window, 
seated  on  a  woodeu  form,  and  basking  iu  the  evening  sun, 
were  a  number  of  the  guards,  chatting  with  two  or  three 
r  isj  -cheeked  girls  who  sat  near  them,  blushing  and  smiling 
in  all  the  conscious  finery  of  clean  caps  and  ribbons,  and 
mincing  out  their  few  phrases  of  English  to  the  best  advan- 
tage— that  being  yet  considered  as  a  kind  of  holiday  dialect 
in  these  districts. 

"  Oy  say,  you  Paddy  there  v  itli  the  halter  about  your 
waist  (instead  of  your  neck),"  said  one  of  the  soldiers  to  a 
lean,  pale-looking,  sulien-eycd,  hard,  straight -lipped  fellow, 
with  a  itw  staring  locks  of  dank  hair  sc;'.ttered  on  his  brow, 
and  a  hay-rope  tied  sash-wise  about  his  person — "Oy  say, 
can  you  tell  us  what  all  them  'ere  papishcs  are  doing  about 
the  shore  ? 

He  pointed  to  several  groups  of  the  cnuntry-men,  women, 
and  children,  who  were  employed  in  gathering  heaps  of  a 
specico  of  sea- weed  am-  g  the  rocks  on  the  water's  edge,  at 
the  little  bay  of  Fodhra ;  while  others  ^vere  kneeling  in 
prayer  at  dili'creut  parts  of  the  coast.  The  person  to  whom 
the  querist  addressed  himself  for  information,  seemed,  by 
the  more  than  equable  indifforencc  with  wlii'ch  he  listened 
to  the  insulting  speech  of  the  latter,  to  b  •  one  of  those 
beaten-down  characters,  to  whom  degradation  is  so  familiar, 
that  they  had  rather  lie  tamely  under  the  most  contemptuous 
slights,  than  undergo  the  intolerable  labour  of  supporting 
an  indi'pendcnt  and  manly  bearing.  He  possessed  all  (and 
more  than  all)  the  complaisance,  without  any  of  the  confident 
and  ready  spirit  of  the  Iri.-h  cliaracter — but  underneath  all 
the  cringing  servility  of  his  nuinner — the  ready  obedience 
of  eye  and  ear — and  the  nmsing,  absent  dulness  of  demean- 
our which  formed  the  outer  crust  and  pastry  work  of  the 


CAIID  Dx".AWING. 


21 


man,  there  Avas  hi  liis  smai!  gray  eye,  montli  dose  saut  and 
forming  one  hard  hne  across,  thin  straight  hair,  and  meagre 
unfea  cheek,  an  unpleasant  depth  of  chara;:;ter,  such  as  Ju- 
lius Ca'sar  (tiiat  hater  of  lean  and  hungry  looks)  might  not 
have  loved  to  contemplate. 

"  Gathereu'  the  dkoolamaun  they  are,  sir,"  he  said  in 
reply  to  the  question  of  the  guard.  *'  Dhoolaniaun,"  he  con- 
tinued, answering  to  fhe  puzzled  look  of  the  latter — ''that's 
a  kind  of  say-weed  that  they  take  home  wit  'eai  to  boil  and 
make  greens  of." 

"  Make  (freens  of  the  sea-weed  /"  exclaimed  tlie  Eugli.'^h- 
man.  "  Well,  come — that's  a  good  un,  however.  Oy  say, 
Jack  !"  addressing  himself  to  one  of  the  two  sailors,  who 
were  still  pursuing  tlieir  game  of  draughts  in  a  room  be- 
hind, (vvitli  the  i-apiility  peculiar  to  the  naval  adepts  in  this 
pastime,)  "you  come  here  and  see  what  a  bull  Paddy  has 
made." 

'■'•  Stcdl  the  ananal  until  I've  done  my  game,"  replied  the 
sailor.      "I  huff  your  man,  Tom  ;  play  on." 

"Well,  Paddy,"  continued  the  witty  protector  of  his 
Majesty's  colours,  "and  what  are  those  folks  doing  on  their 
mairow  bones  along  tlie  shore  ?     Saying  mass,  eh  ?" 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,  sir — none  could  leay  that  only  a  priest. 
They're  sayen  a  prayer  that  way,  sir,  o'  count  o'  Candle- 
mas-day— a  great  feast,  or  holUday,  sir — au  ould  custom 
they  have." 

"  Are  you  a  papish,  Paddy  ?" 

"  Oyeh,  then,  I'm  nothin'  at  all  now,  sir ;  I  was  a  fish- 
joulter,  but  the  times  are  hard  wit  uz,"  said  the  man  with 
hiimitable  sim])licity. 

"A  tish-joker?"  said  the  guard,  "that's  a  sect  I  han't 
heard  of.  How  should  you  Uke  to  go  to  sea,  1  say,  you 
i.isli  Paddy  ?" 

"  He'd  like  it  well  enough,"  said  the  sailor,  "  if  he  could 
live  the  same  lubber's  life  between  decks,  with  nothing  to 
do  from  monung  to  night  bat  sculd  the  cabin  buv  and  ki..k 


«2 


CARD  UKAWIKG, 


chc  cat  iti(o  the  lee  scuppers.  You  Iiisli  make  tight  sailors 
fur  all  that.  A  king,  Tom — crown  him — back  water  there, 
man  ;  you  can't  move  your  man  that  way." 

A  cry  of  "  sail"  from  some  person  stationed  overliead, 
interrupted  this  refined  conversation,  and  drew  the  atten- 
tion bt  the  interlocutors  to  the  waste  of  ocean  which  lay 
nursing  its  giant  strength  in  a  hdling  calm  before  them. 
The  signal  was  immediately  hoisted  on  the  tower,  and  an- 
swered by  the  vessel  with  the  emblems  of  friendship.  In 
a  short  time  after,  a  small  boat  was  lowered  from  her  side, 
and  manned  for  the  shore.  "When  she  touched  the  beach, 
a  young  man  in  sailor's  jacket  and  trowsers,  with  a  small 
bundle  in  his  hand,  leaped  lightly  on  shore,  after  shaking 
l!ai;d.<  cordially  with  each  of  tiie  crew  in  turn.  They  gave 
him  a  cheer  as  he  ascended  the  ro.ks,  which  he  answered 
by  waving  his  hat  several  times  in  the  air.  The  draught 
players  and  the  group  at  the  Towei',  all  but  those  on  guard, 
sauntered  towards  the  beach,  leaving  the  countryman  who 
had  been  the  object  of  their  mirth  alone  at  the  window. 

He  looked  after  them  for  some  moments  with  a  changed 
and  darkening  eye.  "A  sailor!"  he  exclaimed  at  length 
in  soliloquy — "  it's  easy  for  'em  to  talk,  an'  to  laugh,  an'  be 
merry, — if  they  were  as  long  without  vittels  as  I  am,  I'll 
engage  it  would  be  a  new  story  wit  'em.  Co  to  say,  says 
he  ? — Why  then,  I  declare,  'twould  be  a'most  as  good  as 
for  me  to  be  this  way  always.  If  it  be  a  man's  huk  to  be 
shot  or  drown'ded,  sure  better  that  at  wanst  than  to  be 
ever  an  always  pullen  ould  Nick  be  the  tail,  from  year's  end 
to  }car's  end.  When  Duke  Doigan  went  to  sai/  I  was 
glad  of  it,  because  he  left  little  Peunie  M'Loughk'u  to  my- 
self,  an'  I  thought  when  he'd  be  awiiy  that  I'd  have  the 
Held  clear  both  with  herself  and  the  father.  But  in  place 
o'  that,  here  I  am  now  driven  out  o'  house  an'  houu',  an' 
all  that's  happeuen  Duke  is  to  be  out  a  liarm's  way  at  any 
rate.  Heie  he  stopp  d  and  lixcd  liis  eye  btcadfliscly  on  the 
ytmng  man  before  meutioued. 


OAHD  DRAWING.  20 

*'  There's  an  ol J  saving,  tliat  if  you  talk  o'  the  old  boy 
Iiiniself,  he'll  appear,  an'  if  that  beant  Duke  Dorgan,  or  hia 
ghost,  walken  eastwards,  I'm  dark,  lor  certain.  I'll  try  hira 
nearer." 

He  hurried  after  the  yonng  sa''or,  who  had  taken  the 
path  leading  towards  Kilbaha,  and  was  merrily  pursuing  his 
route,  chanting  in  a  quarter-deck  key,  a  stave  of  the  po- 
pular song  of  Willy  Taylor,  and  his  "  lady  free" — casting,  as 
he  sung,  a  rather  anxious  eye  toward  the  waste  of  barren 
heath  and  sand  which  lay  between  him  and  the  interior. 

"  With  that  she  called  for  sword  and  pistol, 

Which  did  come  at  her  coimnaud 

And  she  shot  her  Willie  Taylor 
With  his  fair  one  in  his  hand." 

"  I  say,  messmate."  he  said  as  the  countryman  approached 
him—"  can  you  tow  me  on  the  track  of  Carrigaholt  ?" 

"  The  path  is  under  your  fiitt  every  step  o'  the  way," 
said  the  man.  Then  after  pacing  behind  him  in  silence  for 
a  few  minutes — "  Why  then,  for  one  that  puts  out  the  futt 
so  slow,  I  never  seen  any  body  carry  so  much  o'  the  road 
wit  'em,*  as  you  do,  Mr.  Duke,  Lord  bless  you." 

"  You  know  me  ?"  said  the  other,  turning  and  fixing  Ids 
eyes  on  the  speaker,  then  with  an  air  of  greater  reserve,  as 
he  recognized  the  face — "  and  I  ought  to  know  you,  too. 
'i  iiat  face  is  Pryce  Kinchela's — if  you  haven't  stole  it  from 
hhn." 

"  I  wish  that  was  all  I  had  belongen  to  Pryce  Kinchela 
about  me,"  said  the  man  heavily. 

"  I  am  ghid  to  see  you,  Pryce." 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  are  or  not,  Duke;  but  I'm 
f;lad  to  see  pou — although  you  may  well  doubt  my  word. 
1  am  an  altered  man  since  you  left  the  country — and  the 
foolish  spite  that  you  an'  1  had  then  about  Pennie  Mao 
Luughien — (liie  Silver  Penny  aa  yuu  called — an  the  Luck 

*  Make  so  great  progress. 


24  CAUD  DKAWIITG. 

Penny  as  I  called  her)  is  no  more  tlian  boy's  play,  to  tlie 
cause  I  got  since  from  otlieis.  That  girl,  Duke,  was  no 
Luck  Penny  to  cither  you  or  me.  After  her  fatlier  refused 
you,  an'  you  went  to  sea — sure  what  do  you  think  o'  rne 
but  med  up  to  her,  an'  if  I  did  you'd  tliink  it  was  to  threaten 
to  murder  her  I  did,  the  father  got  so  wild — an'  ever  after 
he  kep  persecuten  me  I'ight  and  left,  until  he  didn't  lay  mc 
a  leg  to  stand  on.  If  you're  not  tired,  an'  would  wish  to 
rest  a  piece  here  on  this  rock,  Pll  tell  you  how  it  was." 

Dorgan  complied — although  the  lengthening  shadows  on 
the  sand  and  the  freshening  breeze  of  the  sharp  February 
evening  advised  him  of  the  necessity  of  securing  some  place 
of  shelter  for  the  night. — Fearful  of  ovcr-burthening  the 
reader  with  the  quaint  idiom  of  the  country — of  \a  hich  poi-- 
haps,  a  superabundance  must  be  thrown  into  these  histo- 
ries— I  shall,  while  Pryce  is  detailing  his  story  to  our  young 
hero,  inform  him,  in  more  intelligible  langua^^e,  of  the  nature 
of  the  incidents  which  had  reduced  him  to  his  present  dis- 
contented condition  of  mind,  and  furnish  a  slight  sketch  of 
bis  character — both  being  mournfully  illustrative  of  the  state 
of  Munster  hfe  in  his  rank. 

Those,  perhaps,  who  are  fond  of  arguing  on  the  existence 
of  innate  propensities  in  the  human  mind,  which  no  influ- 
ence of  education,  circumstances,  or  volition  can  oversway, 
might  find  reason  to  alter  tlieir  opinion,  if  an  opportunity 
■VN'ere  afforded  of  tracing  the  history  of  the  individual  nature 
which  formed  the  subject  of  disquisition  back  to  its  earliest 
impulse,  either  toward  good  or  evil.  However  casuists 
inay  assert  (in  the  face  of  honesty,  and  common  sense.)  that 
the  very  exertion  of  the  will  itself  which  induces  us  to  adopt 
any  evil  course  is  a  species  of  compulsion,  which  relieves  us 
in  justice  from  responsibility,  there  is  not  one  even  of  those 
sensible  fellows,  who,  in  regretting  an  evil  aftion,  which  bo 
had  thus  under  the  tyranny  of  his  own  free  will  been  com- 
pelled to  commit,  will  dare  to  say  to  his  own  secret  cou" 
Buiousncss  tliut  he  could  not  have  held  his  hand  at  the  nio« 


J 


CAIiD  DRAWIXG.  25 

/netit  that  he  knowingly  acted  ill.  As  the  royal  astroloji;er, 
however,  says  of  the  planets,  in  La  vida  es  6'ueno,  that 
they  incline,  bnt  do  not  compel  the  conduct  of  men,  so  might 
it  be  said  of  the  influence  of  the  exterior  circumstances  of 
life  upon  the  human  character — and  judging  from  the  gene- 
ral indolence  of  mankind  in  resisting  the  influence  of  tliose 
circumstances,  it  might  be  safely  conjectured  that  the  com- 
mon routine  of  Munster  cottage  life  and  education  would 
produce  that  recklessness  of  blood  and  outrage  among  ani/ 
people,  with  which  it  has  of  late  years  been  fashionable  to 
charge  flie  inhabitants  of  this  quarter  of  Ireland — as  a  na- 
tural projyensity.  The  two  individuals  whom  we  have  just 
introduced  to  our  readers,  presented  instances  to  the  effect 
of  those  circumstances,  both  in  different  ways.  They  were 
both  taught  to  fight  their  own  battles  in  childhood,  both 
were  instructed  in  the  mysteries  of  the  "  Reading-made-easy," 
under  the  same  hedge-school  tyrant,  a  low  rufllan,  who,  for 
tiie  small  sum  of  two  and  sixpence,  or  more  Hibernically 
speaking,  three  tenpennies  a  quarter,  undertook  to  pull  their 
liair,  break  deal  rulers  (or  sthrokers)  upon  their  little  hands, 
lift  them  up  by  the  ears  for  the  slightest  orthographical  mis- 
take, lash  their  naked  and  bleeding  shins  three  times  a  day 
with  a  huge  birchen  rod,  by  way  of  stimulating  them  to 
greater  application,  and  teach  them  to  read  and  write  into 
the  bargain.  The  manner  in  which  the  two  boys  acted 
under  this  treatment  was  very  different.  Pryce  seldom 
complained,  even  to  a  school-fcUow,  of  the  torture  which 
was  inflicted  on  him  :  sometimes  his  lip  trembled  and  a  tear 
stood  in  his  eye  when  the  pain  given  was  extreme,  but  gene- 
rally the  patience  and  fortitude  of  endurance  whicli  he 
showed,  was  such  as  to  touch  even  the  rocky  heart  of  the 
Munster  Dionyslus  with  remorse.  Duke,  on  the  contrary, 
was  a  loud  and  noisy  rebel ;  he  kicked,  plunged,  remon- 
strated, threatened  murder  and  assassination,  and  a  thou- 
saud  other  things,  Mhich  redoubled  his  afflictions,  and  which 
were  forgotten  by  himself  as  soon  as  the  latter  were  sus- 
2 


2G  CARD  DRAWING. 

peiided.  On  tliree  or  four  occasion?,  however,  when  the 
pedagogue  had  been  particularly  severe  on  both  boys,  he  re- 
ceived on  his  way  home  through  a  wood  in  the  neighbour- 
hood a  blow  from  a  heavy  stone,  discharged  by  some  secret 
I'.and,  Avliich  never  failed  to  draw  blood  in  profusion  from 
his  head,  and  at  one  time  inflicted  such  a  wound  as  consi- 
derably to  endanger  his  life.  His  suspicions  naturally  fell 
on  Duke,  but  to  his  astonishment  and  mortification,  the 
clearest  alibi  was  always  made  out  for  the  boy,  and  no  pos- 
sible investigation  could  lead  to  the  real  delinquent.  There 
was  no  doubt  that  one  of  his  pupils  was  the  criminal,  but 
whoever  he  might  be,  he  kept  the  triumi)h  of  his  revenge, 
contrary  to  the  usual  w^ont  of  school-boys,  a  secret  from  the 
whole  world.  Duke,  nevertheless,  did  not  at  any  time  at« 
tempt  to  conceal  his  satisfaction  at  the  occurrence. 

Another  circumstance  placed  the  dispositions  of  the  youths 
in  singular  apposition.  Among  the  little  girls  who  occupied 
>he  row  of  round  stones  placed  along  the  wall  opposite  to 
the  boys,  was  a  little  flaxen-haired  coquette  named  Pene- 
lope M'Lougblen,  whose  blue  eyes  and  cherry  lips  had 
made  sad  work  in  the  hearts  of  the  young  dabblers  in  ety- 
mology. Their  atfoction,  liowever,  was  manifested  in  a 
very  different  manner.  While  Duke  fought  for  her,  carried, 
her  over  streams  and  ditches  and  treated  her  to  an  occa- 
sional "hayporth"  of  sugar-candy — Pryce  mended  h^rfeque* 
folded  her  thumb-paper,  and  taught  her  the  analogy  between 
C  and  half  a  griddle,  H  and  a  haggard-gate ;  so  that  like 
the  wavering  mistress  of  the  Two  Noble  Kinsmen,  her 
aftections  were  divided  between  the  manly  frankness,  cou- 
rage, and  generosity  of  the  former,  and  the  silent  attentions 
and  profound  learning  of  the  latter  lover.  As  they  ap- 
proached the  years  of  manhood  (lie  is  a  long-lived  Irishman 
that  reaches  those  of  discretion,)  the  relation  of  the  parties 
towards  each  other  continued  almost  the  same  ;  but  that  of 

*  Used  in  pointiiifj  the  letters  out — Ortliographically— yearaB, 


L_ 


CAKD  Dr AWING.  27 

the  Ificly  to  them  was  altered.  Her  heart,  according  as  its 
capability  of  discriminating  and  appreciating  the  worth  of 
character  became  more  acute,  inclined  toward  the  side  of 
the  ii-ank  and  hearty  Duke.  He  was,  to  use  a  homely  but 
forcible  metaphor  which  is  popular  in  her  countiy,  "  that 
kind  of  man  that  the  wrong  side  of  him  was  turned  out 
every  day,"  while  her  womanly  shrewdness  told  her  that 
she  had  not  yet  seen  more  than  the  sunny  half  of  l.is  rival. 
She  ventured,  with  the  due  proportion  of  maiden  reluctance 
and  timidity,  to  confess  this  preference  to  the  enraptured 
Duke,  and  with  true  filial  spirit  had  her  partiality  ripened 
into  passion  lasting  and  immoveable,  when  her  lover  pro- 
posed for  her  and  was  scornfully  rejected  by  her  father. 
Duke  went  to  sea,  and  Kiuchela,  after  beating  about  the 
point  with  the  caution  which  his  rival's  experience  had 
taught  him  to  use,  tried  his  luck  with  no  better  success.  It 
was  indeed  reported  for  some  timo  after  in  the  neighbour- 
hood that  his  rejection  had  been  still  more  unceremonious 
than  poor  Dorgan's — a  rumour  which  was  probably  founded 
on  the  fact  that  Penny  never  heard  the  circumstance  alluded 
to  without  smothering  a  laugh,  and  that  the  old  man  (who 
was  rather  fiery  in  his  temper)  sent  the  shoe  of  his  right 
foot  to  be  mended  the  same  evening,  with  a  rent  about  the 
toe,  which  showed  as  if  considerable  violence  had  been  used 
with  it.  After  this,  Pryce  had  been,  up  to  the  present 
time,  falling  from  clifi:*  to  clift"  downward  through  the  dark 
vale  of  adversity,  until  he  found  himself  at  last  stretched, 
fairly  baffled  and  spirit  broken,  at  the  bottom. 

"And  you  take  it  so  tamely!"  exclaiuied  the  young 
sailor,  Avhen  Pryce  had  come  to  a  close, — "  I  would  have 
given  the  feUow  a  rope's  end  at  any  rate,  if  not  rouud  the 
neck,  across  the  shoulders  at  least." 

"  Is  that  ail  you'd  do  to  him?"  asked  Pryce,  quietly. 

"  All !  'tis  more,  it  seems,  than  you'd  do^but  you  were 
ever  an'  always  a  poor  patient  sloh." 

**\Va3  1  ?"  said  Kiuchela,  witli  a  smile,  the  expression  of 


2S  CAKD  Di; AWING. 

•which,  from  liis  tnnung  away  Iiis  head  while  he  spolce,  it 
was  evident  he  did  not  wish  to  give  Dnke  an  opjionnnity 
of  spoculatinp;  npon.  "  But  I  believe  'tis  time  for  ns  to 
think  of  parting,  Mr.  Dorgan.  If  you  stop  in  Carrigaholt 
to-morrow  at  tlie  Bee-hive,  you'll  see  me  there  bcfoi-e  yon 
and  we'll  have  a  little  more  crusheenlng  together,  yonvself, 
an'  myself;  I  have  a  call  to  make  westwards  before  I  go.'' 

Thev  parted— -and  Dorga,n  pursued  his  route,  not  witlioiit 
a  certain  feeling  of  contempt  for  the  easy  inditference  with 
which  his  former  rival  sustained  the  spirit-rousing  slights 
that  had  been  cast  upon  him.  These  unpleasant  feelings, 
however,  were  soon  displaced  by  anticipations,  such  as  might 
natui'ally  be  supposed  to  occur  to  a  young  and  ardent 
heart  on  its  return  from  a  long  exile  to  the  home  and  the 
friends  of  his  early  life.  He  felt  perfectly  assured  that  old 
M'Loughlen  could  not  resist  the  influence  of  the  wealth  and 
honour  he  had  acquired  during  many  years  of  service,  as 
eventful  and  perilous  (for  the  deck  which  he  trod  was  that 
Avliich  called  Nelson  captain,)  as  ever  British  seamen  braved; 
and  as  he  was  himself  eminently  tinged  with  that  "  forgive- 
and-forget"  spirit  which  forms  one  of  the  ciiaracteristics  of 
hii  nation,  he  looked  forward  with  an  impatient  generosity 
to  the  hour  of  reconciliation.  He  turned  aside  in  fancy  from 
the  father's  rough  hand-shake  and  repentairt  greeting,  to  the 
blushing  cheek  and  joyous  eye  of  his  now  womanly  Penny, 
whom  he  pictured  to  himself  standing  bashfully  behind  her 
father,  and  waiting  with  a  throbbing  heart  and  trembling 
frame  to  meet  him  v/ith  a  true  love  welcome.  As  ho 
thought  of  those  things  lie  doubled  his  pace,  and  made  the 
sand  hills  flit  so  rapidly  behind  him,  tliat  the  traces  of  the 
outer  coast  were  presently  lost,  and  the  sound  of  the  distant 
waste  of  ocean  came  faint  and  far  upon  his  ear. 

The  February  evening  soon  began  to  draw  to  a  close,  and 
the  vvind,  which  blew  from  the  sea,  acquired  a  sharpness  and 
coldness  which  furnished  Dorgan  with  an  additional  though 
less  seutimcntal  reason  fur  quickening  bis  ^cps.     He  was 


CARD  CR AWING.  23 

almost  in  a  solitude — t!ie  clouds  began  to  lower  and  darken 
upon  his  path — while  the  occasional  scream  of  a  horse-gull 
as  it  swooped  around  him,  and  with  difficulty  upheld  its 
lio-ht  and  feathery  bulk  against  the  rising  Avind,  together 
with  tlie  dreary  whistling  of  that  wind  itself  as  it  wafted 
over  his  head  the  sea- foam  that  v/as  broken  on  the  cliffs  at 
half-a-mile  distant,  formed  the  only  sounds  that  varied  the 
dead  monotony  of  the  scene  around  him.  The  absence  of 
public  roads,  moreover  (for  this  was  long  before  jMr.  Killala, 
the  excellent  engineer,  was  sent  to  visit  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try,) contributed  to  throw  an  air  of  greater  wildness  and 
loneliness  over  its  surface,  so  that  Dorgan  felt  by  no  means 
at  his  ease  M-hen  the  darkness,  which  speedily  banished  the 
reflection  of  the  last  ray  of  sunset  from  the  sky,  left  him  to 
grope  his  way,  without  a  pilot,  through  this  trackless  waste 
of  gloom.  His  eyes,  accommodating  their  power  of  vision 
in  some  time  to  the  darkness  Mhich  at  first  seemed  almost 
equivalent  to  blindness,  enabled  him,  after  a  few  hours'  hard 
walking,  to  discover  at  a  little  distance  one  of  those  mise- 
rable huts  which  but  too  often  forms  the  only  asylum  in 
which  the  poor  ilunstcr  cottager  can  tiud  a  refuge  from  the 
tyranny  of  the  "  winter's  flaw."  The  softness  of  the  soil 
beneath  his  feet  informed  liim,  moreover,  that  he  had  ar- 
rived on  better  cultivated  land,  while  at  the  same  time  a 
disparting  of  the  vapours  above  enabled  him  to  discover,  a 
few  perches  from  the  place  where  he  stood,  a  comfortable- 
looking  farm  house,  with  a  haggard*  stored  with  two  or 
three  stacks  of  hay  and  reed.  Unwilling  to  disturb  at  so 
unseasonable  an  hour  the  slumbering  inmates  of  the  dwell- 
ing, and  uncertain,  besides,  of  the  reception  he  might  meet 
with,  Dorgan  resolved  to  spend  the  I'emainder  of  the  night 
ia  the  dry  and  still  recess  formed  by  the  grouping  of  the 
stacks.  He  stepped  over  the  haggard  stile,  and,  after  shak- 
ing down  some  of  the  sweet  hay  on  the  ground,  he  flung 

••  Hay-)ard. 


30  CARD  DRAWING. 

liimself  at  full  length  on  this  simple  natural  couch,  plnced 
his  bundle  under  his  head,  aud  was  speedily  lost  in  the  wil- 
derness of  monkey-visions  among  wliich  the  nnchaiued 
fancy  of  the  sleeper  loves  to  exercise  her  magic  skill. 

We  cannot  afford,  nevertheless,  to  sit  long  idly  by  our 
hero  while  he  slumbers,  so  that  the  reader  will  have  tlie 
complaisance  to  imagine  the  winter-night  already  past,  and 
the  summons  of  the  "  early"  cock  s'lrilling  in  his  vexed 
and  drowsy  ear.  As  he  awoke  and  turned  on  his  rude 
pallet,  tiie  murmuring  of  human  voices  Vv-ithiu  a  few  feet 
of  the  spot  where  he  lay,  arrested  his  attention.  He  lis- 
tened, ahiiost  unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing,  and  totally 
forgetful  of  its  impropriety,  while  the  toUowing  conversa- 
tion passed  between  two  speakers.  The  voices  were  those 
of  females  ;  one  of  them,  from  the  sweetness  and  richness 
of  the  tones,  a  young — and  the  other,  from  the  harshness 
and  hard  vulgarity  of  the  accent,  evidently  an  old  woman. 

"  I  walked,"  said  the  younger,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  dis- 
content and  remonstrance,  "  three  miles  to  meet  you  here 
since  the  day-dawn,  and  I  must  be  back  again  and  have  the 
cows  spancelled,  and  the  milk  set,  and  the  men's  breakfast 
ready  before  my  father  gets  up  ;  for  if  he  knew  I  came  to 
see  you,  he'd  kill  me..  And  here  you  kept  me  a  whole  hour 
waiting  for  you." 

"  Don't  blame  me,  avourneen,"  Avas  the  soothing  re])ly ; 
"  I  am  an  old  woman,  and  you're  so  young,  that  your  blood 
is  running  yet  like  cherry-brandy  in  your  veins.  When 
you  sec  as  much.of  the  harm  that's  done  in  the  day-light 
as  I  have,  darlen,  you  won't  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  shorten 
the  night  as  you  were  this  mornen." 

"  Well,  let  us  say  no  more  of  it.  You  told  me  last  night, 
before  my  father  came  in  and  found  you  in  the  kitclicn, 
that  you  could  tell  me  secrets  that  nobody  knew  but  ui}'- 
sclf." 

"  What  else  did  I  get  my  gift  for  ?  When  I  was  an  in- 
fant at  l!ic  breost,  my  mothci-  gay  me,  by  the  directions  of 


CARD  DRAWING.  61 

an  avP'jrrishtfn  that  she  seen,  three  drops  of  a  cow's  first 
milk  alter  caiviiig,  before  the  young  came  a  near  her,  and 
that's  the  reason  the  gift  is  upon  me  now." 

'*  Tell  me,  then,"  and  here  the  girl  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment, "  tell  me,  till  I  try  you.     Have  1  a  sweetheart  or 

110  r 

It  needed  not  a  ghost  come  from  the  grave  to  soU-e  tliis 
profound  question,  and  so  thought  Duke  Dorgan,  as  he 
recognised  in  the  elder  female,  from  the  tenor  of  the  cim- 
versation,  one  of  a  class  of  idle  and  worse  than  idle  cha- 
racters. Their  trade  it  was,  and  is  (though  the  increasing 
knowledge  of  the  peasantry  in  other  parts  of  the  country 
has  rendered  their  profits  much  less  considerable  than  they 
were,)  to  wander  trom  house  to  house,  defrauding  silly  cot- 
tage girls,  and,  rumour  asserts,  some  silly  men  too,  of  tliuir 
hardly-earned  moneys  under  the  pretence  of  giving  them  a 
fi'-penny  or  a  tenpenny  peep  into  futuiity,  according  to 
the  length  of  their  purses  and  their  curiosit}^  The  means 
which  these  worthies  most  commonly  used  to  arrive  at  a 
knowledge  of  "  coming  events"  was  some  mystical  calcula- 
tion on  a  pack  of  cards ;  and  instances  have  fallen  within 
the  circle  of  our  own  experience  where  those  "  (Janl- 
drawers,"  as  they  are  popularly  termed,  Avere  permitted 
and  invited  to  exercise  their  skill  in  gull-catching  in  other 
than  cottage  company.     But  to  continue  our  tale. 

"  Ileach  me  your  hand,  darlen,"  said  the  Card-drawer, 
"ont'l  I  feel  your  pulse  a  piece."  There  was  a  pause  of  a 
few  minutes,  when  she  resumed.  "  The  blood  beats  ^^  arm, 
but  it  doesn't  come  from  the  heart.  Your  heart  is  not 
your  own,  and  the  boy  that  has  it  is  far  away  from  you." 

A  gentle  exclamation  of  astonishment  from  the  young 
inquirer  showed  that  the  Card- drawer  had  judged  right. 

"  Tell  me  news  of  him,"  was  the  next  request,  made  in 
panting  eagerness ;  it  it  be  good  I  will  give  you  another 
half-crown." 

^"•Oy,  iudccd  !"  said  the  Card- drawer,  with   an  affected 


32  CARD  DRAWING. 

indignation,  "  as  if  all  the  silver  in  your  pnrse,  altliongh  it 
was  as  long  as  the  king's,  that  they  say  if  yoa  held  oiM! 
end  of  it  and  I  held  another,  we  never  'ud  meet,  would 
make  bad  good  or  good  bad."  Here  Dorgau  heard  the 
shuflling  of  a  pack  cf  cards.  "  We'll  try  what  it  is,  any 
way.     Draw  a  card,  an'  face  the  east.     What  is  it  ?" 

"  The  king  o'  diamonds." 

"Gondoutha!  Good.     Draw  again.     AVell?" 

"  The  ace  o'  hearts." 

"  Allilu !  better  an'  better  again.  Why,  draw  ouce 
more." 

"  The  queen  o'  spades." 

"  That's  yourself.  All  good.  Your  lover  is  comen' 
home  with  a  sighth  o'  money,  aud  a.s  fond  o'  you  as 
ever." 

"■  I  thank  you,  and  you're  a  good  creature,"  said  the 
young  ftmale,  in  accents  tliat  were  broken  by  the  agitation 
of  delight.  "  Ilush  !  I  hear  something  stirriiig  near  us. 
Good  morning,  the  sun  is  high,  and  I'll  be  killed  if  my 
father  finds  me  out,  when  he  gets  up." 

"  Stay  one  moment,  a-gra-gal.  You  forget  that  trifle 
you  wor  talken'  of.  'Tisn't  for  the  sake  o'  the  lucre  I'd 
talk,  but  as  we  were  nientionen'  it  at  all — " 

"  Oh,  the  half-crown  ?  I  had  quite  forgot  it,  I  declare. 
Here  it  is,  my  good  woman.  If  what  you  say  comes  to 
pass,  I  will  make  that  a  great  deal  more;  if  you  have  been 
only  deceiving  me,  because  I  am  young,  and  my  heart  fool- 
ish and  credulous,  may  Heaven  forgive  you  for  it  !  it  would 
be  doing  no  better  than  to  put  a  blind  man  on  a  wrong 
path." 

"An' there's  few  that  would  do  that,  a-colleen,"  said 
the  Card-drawer,  as  turning  full  within  Dorgan's  siglit. 
while  he  heard  the  young  girl,  whom  she  bid  been  cuiping, 
trip  lightly  through  the  rushes,  she  put  the  piece  of  silver 
in  a  corner  of  her  handkerciiief,  made  a  knot  abortt  it,  and 
thrust  it  into  her  dark  and  withered  bosom.     Before  she 


CAPwD  Dr:A^\'reG.  33 

discovered  h\m,  as  he  lay  stretched  on  the  hay,  oiir  hero 
had  a  full  opportunity  of  observing  her  face  and  figure  : 
and  as  forming  one  of  a  class  of  persons  who  exercised  a 
considerable  influence  over  the  minds  of  the  peasantry  of 
her  country,  the  reader  perhaps  will  allow  us  to  present  a 
brief  sketch  of  what  he  saw,  in  defiance  of  Meg  Merrilies 
and  all  her  bony  sisterhood. 

It  is  almost  impossible  to  conceive  how  so  many  shreds 
and  rags  could  hang  together  as  composed  this  woman's 
dress.  There  did  not  appear  to  be  two  square  inches  about 
her  in  one  piece,  and  her  whole  costume  shook  in  the  morn- 
ing wind  like  the  foliage  of  a  tree,  yet  she  had  even  a  warm 
and  comfortable  look.  Duke  never  saw  in  his  life  before 
such  a  mountain  of  rags.  IIov/  they  were  all  nnited  puzzled 
him  more  than  the  mystery  of  the  tides  of  Negropont  did 
tlie  Stagyrite.  Her  shoes,  or  more  properly  (if  they  must 
have  a  name)  her  brogues,  were  in  pieces,  yet  her  feet 
were  perfectly  covei'cd — partly  with  straAV  thri:st  into  the 
lissures  made  in  the  leather,  and  in  part  with  the  fragments 
of  an  old  woollen  stocking.  To  find  a  name  for  each  article 
of  clothing  which  she  wore  would  have  been  impossible. 
She  had,  to  speak  truly,  neitlier  gown,  nor  petticoat,  nor 
cloak — yet  clad  she  was  from  top  Jo  toe,  and  that  fully. 
It  seemed  as  if  her  dress  had  been  built  np  about  her  frtini 
the  ground  of  all  manner  of  fragments.  Her  head-drejs, 
as  it  was  simple,  was  less  equivocal  than  the  rest  of  her 
costume.  It  consisted  of  a  lai'ge  red  and  yellow  handker- 
chief, under  which  her  g)-ay  hair  rolled  up  on  something 
similar  to  what  ladies  call  a  Johnny,  was  fastened — so  as 
to  present  an  appearance  like  that  of  a  very  low  fete  ;  two 
corners  of  the  keichief  were  tied  under  her  peaked  and 
lengthened  chin,  Avhile  the  others  were  suffered  to  flutter  in 
the  wind,  or  hmig  idly  over  the  back  of  her  head.  Over 
her  right  shoulder  was  tluvwa  a  number  of  fare,  kid,  and 
rabbit'skins,  together  with  a  bundle  of  nnclarified  goose- 
quills,  both  of  which  she  had  picked  up  in  her  pevegrina- 


S4:  CARD  DRAWJXG. 

tlons  for  a  trifle,  to  dispose  of  them  at  a  dne  profit  to  fbo 
skiu  and  feather  merchants  of  St.  Jolm's  Gate,  iu  Lime- 
ricli, — this  forming  tiio  ostensible  cafiing  under  cover  of 
■vvhich  she  carried  on  her  more  lucrative  trade  of  "  card 
drawing,"  or  telling  of  fortunes. 

The  features  of  the  Card-drawer,  were  calculated  by 
their  expression  to  aid  her  considerably  in  the  eflbrts  which 
she  made  to  acquire  an  influence  over  the  weak  credulous 
minds  of  those  who  were  accustomed  to. consult  her.  The 
small  weasel  eyes,  set  at  an  extraordinary  distance  from 
each  other,  in  which  a  person  of  common  penetration  could 
have  discovered  nothing  more  than  the  light  of  that 
"  crooked  wisdom,"  usually  denominated  cunning,  which  is 
so  useful  to  persons  of  her  profession,  seemed  to  her  won- 
dering dupeo  to  be  full  of  a  piercing  sagacity,  and  a  cer- 
tain mysterious  lustre,  which  made  their  hearts  stir  unciisily 
within  them.  Her  foi'ehead  v/as  broad  and  tanned  by  con- 
tinual exposure  to  the  weather — her  nose  flat  and  yet  large, 
presenting,  together  with  the- disagreeable  breadth  oi  space, 
of  which  it  formed  the  centre  between  the  eyes,  something 
of  the  cast  of  countenance  for  vvhich  that  race  of  Italians 
are  remarkable,  who  are  said  to  be  the  direct  and  lineal 
dcocendants  of  the  old  Romans.  Her  mouth  appeared  to 
be  otlierv/ise  occupied  than  in  aifording  Duke  an  opportu- 
nity of  observing  its  i)roportions,  for  it  was  fast  shut  upon 
a  pipe,  the  bowl  of  which  was  flistcned  on  the  barrel  of  a 
quill,  that  being  a  more  capacious  conductor  of  tiie  com- 
fortable fume,  than  the  narrow  earthen  tube  originally 
affixed  to  it. 

She  started,  when  she  saw  Dorgan  stretched  on  his  hay 
couch  between  the  stacks,  and  gazing  steadily  on  her. 
"  Why,  then,  heaven  bless  you,  ciiild,  but  that's  a  dhroU 
place  iur  yuu  to  be  lyen  ;  is  it  all  uight  you  wor  out  that 
way  ?" 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Dorgan,  rising  and  taking  his  bundle, 
without  attending  to,  indeed  without  hearing  her  question, 


CAKD  LliAWlKG.  0<i 

• — "  nlio  was  that  3'oung  girl,  tbsit  I  heard  speaking  to 
you,  just  now  ?" 

"  I'm  atear'd,"  said  the  Card-drawer,  lookhig  at  him 
askance  with  one  of  her  eyes,  "you're  in  a  greater  hurry 
to  hear  that  than  I  am  to  tell  you.  Would  you  make  a 
bctraj-er  o'  me  ?" 

"  Not  I,  mdeed,"  said  Duke,  "  nor  do  I  wish  you  to 
answer  the  question,  if  there  be  any  confidence  between 
you  and  her." 

And  turning  on  his  heel,  he  was  going  to  jump  on  the 
stile,  leading  to  the  common  footpath,  when  the  old  wumau 
called  to  him. 

"  Easy  a  while,  sailor  !  AVould  you  like  to  have  a  body 
tell  your  forteu  ?" 

"  My  fortune  ?"  said  Duke,  with  a  laugh, — "  Go,  you 
old  rogue,  did  yon  think  I'm  one  of  your  woodcocks?  How 
would  a  sinner  like  you  (if  it  isn't  judging  you — but  we're 
all  sinners)  come  into  the  knowledge  of  heaven's  secrets  ?" 

"  Oyeh,  who  pretends  to  any  knowledge  of  'em  ?  I'm 
sure  I  don't.  I  see  nothen — I  hear  nothen — I  know  nothea 
— 'Tis  all  in  this  pack  o'  cards,  it  is.  You  draw  for  your- 
seli^ — all  I'll  do,  is  to  tell  you  what  it  is  ;  I  know  no  more 
o'  y»Hi,  than  you  do  yourself,  till  you  draw,  an'  then  the 
cards  '11  tell  us." 

Although  Dorgan  had  very  little  of  the  superstitious  cre- 
dulity which  is  common  to  most  sailors,  in  his  composition, 
he  was  not  destitute  of  a  certain  portion  of  youthful  curi- 
osity. He  paused  a  moment,  his  hand  resting  on  the  stile 
while  he  surveyed  the  old  woman  with  a  gaze  of  mingled 
condescension  and  smiling  incredulity. — "  And  what  must 
I  pay  for  your  nonsense,  old  lady  ?" 

"•  May  1  never  die  in  sin,  If  I'd  ask  anythen  more  gen- 
teel and  otf-han  I,  than  that  dullar  that's  danglen  be  the 
ribljon  to  the  breast  o'  your  coat." 

"  Dollar !"  Dorgan  exclaimed  with  another  loud  laugh. 
*'  You  exorbitant  iiag  1   Yv'ould  you  have  me  sell  you  my 


6b  CAUD  dhaaving. 

lafirels  ?  Tliis  is  my  Trafalgar  medal."  And  he  gase-!!  on 
it  with  an  eye  in  which  fondness  and  pride  were  mingled. 

The  Card-drawer  drew  back  respectfully,  and  curtsied  to 
the  veiT  ground.— If  you  were  one  of  Nelson's  sailors,"  said 
slio, — "that  great  lord,  that  all  the  world  is  in  mourning 
foi-,  this  way,  I'll  take  nothcn  from  you.  Here  draw  your 
fate  an'  welcome." 

"  I  will,"  replied  Dorgan, — "  but  not  gratis,  my  good 
woman.  Here,"  putting  a  half-crown  into  her  hand,  and 
assuming  a  more  cordial  manner  (which  I  request  my  reader 
will  not  attribute  to  the  flattering  humility  of  the  Card- 
drawer's  demeanour) — "put  up  this — and  let  me  draw  my 
fate,  as  you  call  it." 

"  The  heavens  bless  your  honour ;  face  the  cast,  sir, 
"Well  what  have  you  drawii  ?" 

"  A  scoundrelly,  bandy-legged  knave  o'  clubs." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,  young  man,"  said  the  Card-drawer, 
in  a  tone  of  deep  concern.  "  Draw  again,  sir,  and  hope  for 
better  luck.     AVell,  what  card  is  that  ?" 

"  The  same  squint-eyed  knave,  as  I'm  alive.  Is  there 
ill-look  in  the  fellow's  phiz  ?" 

"  You  must  draw  three  cards,  before  I  can  answer  any 
questions.  Here  ! — there  is  but  one  other  chance  between 
youandaveryillforten.     Well,  is  there  any  better  lucknow?" 

Dorgan  drew  a  third  time,  and  started  back  when  he 
looked  on  the  card,  as  if  he  had  seen  a  ghost. 

"  I  insist,"  said  he  vehemently,  "  on  seeing  the  pack — 
there  arc  none  but  knaves  o'  clubs  in  your  hands." 

"  0  shame  an' sorrow,  asthora-ma-chree,  Mhy  should  you 
say  such  a  thing  as  that  ? — see,  yourself.  Isn't  that  a 
fair  an'  lionest  pack  o'  cards  ?  'Tisn't  to  draw  the  knave 
o'  elubs  agin  you  done,  is  it  ?'* 

"  rU  be  hanged  if  I  haven't  though,"  said  Duke,  troubled 
and  fretted  in  spite  of  himself  at  the  singular  coincidence — ■ 
which  he  perhaps  too  readily  believed  to  bo  uucontriveil  on 
the  part  of  tiie  old  woman. 


CARD    DRAWIXG.  37 

"  Yoivil  be  hang-ed  if  yon  have,  yon  ought  to  say,"  sh? 
replied,  assuming  a  solemn  earnestness  of  tone  and  look. 

''  I  icill,  be  banged  then,"  said  the  sailor — "  for  there 
is  the  card." 

"  Whoever  you  are,''  the  Card-drawer  replied,  after 
shaking  her  head  and  looking  steadfastly  at  him  for  a  few 
moments,  "you  are  a  free-handed,  spirited  boy,  an'  my 
heart  within  me  is  sorry  for  you.  If  you  left  your  ship 
for  fear  of  a  sailor's  grave,  you  may  return  to  her  again, 
for  your  doom  is  not  to  be  upon  the  waters.  There's  a 
theatneu  of  a  voylent  an'  a  shame-death  in  the  card  you 
drew.  If  you  have  a  spite  agin  any  body,  or  if  it  be  a 
thing  any  body  would  have  the  likes  again  you,  I  tell  you, 
an  warn  you  to  beware  an  look  about  you.  Feel  your 
way  before  you,  for  a  black  doom  is  waiten  for  you. 
Once  more  I  advise  you,  look  well  to  yourself,  an'  dale 
quietly  wit  all  people.  Good  mornen  to  yon,  lad,  and 
heaven  send  you  better  luck  then  you're  promised — an'  a 
rough  road,  porcupine  saddle,  an'  a  high-trotten  horse  to 
all  your  innimies."  And  so  saying,  the  old  woman  con- 
concealed  the  cards  in  some  part  of  her  dress,  and  hurried 
through  the  haggard,  muttering,  as  soon  as  she  passed 
out  of  hearing,  "  There  why  !  May  be  I  didn't  make  you 
pay  for  your  peepen,  for  once.  He  has  something  to  think 
of  now  to  keep  his  mind  from  harm,  any  way." 

Although  we  have  before  said  that  Duke  Dorgan  was 
by  no  means  feeble-minded,  or  idly  credulous,  it  would  be 
claiming  for  him,  perhaps,  a  vigour  of  intellect  which  is  but 
little  characteristic  of  the  members  of  his  class  of  society, 
in  any  country  in  the  world,  if  we  asserted,  that  he  was  in- 
capable of  being  at  all  influenced  by  circumstances  so  im- 
irapressive  as  those  which  he  had  just  undergone.  The  co- 
incidence in  the  thrice  selected  card  (in  which,  probably, 
the  more  penetrating  reader  can  discover  nothing  farther 
than  the  roguish  dexterity  of  a  cunning  old  beldame)  if  it 
did  not  appear  to  him  as  a  really  supernatm'al  occurrence,  a* 


38  CAKD  DKAWIKG. 

least  made  liim  think  very  deeply  on  the  subject,  and  nin- 
gled  itself  ■with  her  explanation  and  prophecy,  to  which  it 
imparted  a  strangely  corroborative  weight.  We  might  ap- 
peal to  the  experience  of  many  of  our  most  philosophical 
and  apathetic  readers,  to  say,  whether  they  have  not  often 
found  trains  of  thought  or  feeling  which  they  at  first  as- 
sumed in  inditiereuce  or  in  jest,  grow  and  fasten  on  their 
attention,  in  a  degree  which  was  entirely  the  reverse  of  tri- 
fling or  agreeable.  In  like  manner  fared  our  hero  :  tha 
longer  he  dwelt  on  the  Card-drawer  and  her  prophecy,  the 
more  ill  at  ease  he  grew — until  at  length  he  wished,  from 
the  bottom  of  his  heart,  that  he  never  exchanged  a  Mord 
with  her.  He  was  astonished  at  the  feverish  state  of  mind 
which  very  speedily  grew  upon  him — "  I  don't  believe  a 
word  of  it,"  he  said  remonstrating  with  himself — "  and  as 
to  the  old  woman  herself — of  course  she  is  an  impostor.  I 
should  be  worse  than  an  idiot,  to  be  at  all  influenced  by 
any  thing  she  could  tell  me — nor  am  I — but  yet  to  draw 
tiiat  Icjig-noscd  knave  o'  clubs  three  times  ! — No  matter  ! 
time  M  ill  tell." 

He  sprang  lightly  over  the  stile,  and,  bundle  in  hand, 
speedily  lost  recollection  of  his  moining  adventure  in  the 
varieties  of  the  scenes  through  which  he  passed,  on  his  route 
towards  his  native  village — and  tlie  home  of  his  love.  'J"he 
country  around  him  was  level,  boggy,  and  uncultivated, 
with  but  scanty  exc-eptions ;  and  the  occasional  companions 
of  his  journey  were  the  blue-stockinged  fish-jolters,  from  the 
neighbouring  villages  of  Beltard  and  Quern  (famous  for  the 
delicious  turbot,  which  philanthropically  incarcerated  them- 
selves in  the  fishing-nets,  for  the  beueiit  of  the  gourmands 
of  Clare  and  Limerick). 

The  rough-looking  mei  chants  who  dealt  in  such  delicious 
ware  beat  on  their  rough-coa:cd  asses,  as  they  staggered 
under  the  weight  of  their  well-furnished  cleaves  or  pauiers, 
and  diver>ificd  the  monotony  of  the  sweet  and  wholesome 
£ca  u,i/,  with  what  Trinculo  would  call  a  "  most  ancient  aud 


J 


CAHD  DI;A^vINa.  30 

Esh-like  smell."  Now  niul  then,  too,  a  pi:;-]obbor,  dis- 
tingnishcd  by  his  wesithcr-proof  air,  his  ponderous  frieze 
great-coat,  with  standing  collar,  forming  a  strong  wall  of 
defence  np  to  the  veiy  eyes — his  Avide  waste  of  cape,  and 
his  one  spur  fastened  upon  the  well-greased  brogue,  vouch- 
safed a  "  save  you  kindly,"  as  he  trotted  by ;  and  a  carman, 
seated  sidewise  on  the  back  of  a  horse,  (whose  bony  ribs 
bespoke  him  innocent  of  the  luxury  of  oats) — viith  his  feet 
on  the  shaft,  a  cart-whip  tied  sashwise  about  his  person 
from  shoulder  to  hips,  a  dingy  stravr  hat  flung  "  on  three 
hairs"  of  his  head,  heavy  woollen  waistcoat,  bundle-cloth 
shirt  thrown  open  at  the  neck,  and  light  streamers  of  gray 
ribbon  fluttering  rakisliiy  at  the  knees  of  his  corduroy  small 
clothes, — hospitably  invited  him  to  take  a  seat  on  the  cor- 
ner of  his  car,  loaded  as  it  was  with  full-bounds  of  butter, 
or  bags  of  oats  for  the  inland  markets. 

Duke  was  tempted  to  loiter  so  much  on  his  way,  that  the 
sun  was  past  its  meridian  height  for  some  time  before  he 
entered  the  village  of  Carrigaholt,  Avithin  little  more  than 
a  mile  of  Avhich  Mr.  SI'Loughlen,  the  flrther  of  his  beloved 
Penny,  resided.  He  had  previously  come  to  tl>e  determina- 
tion of  allowing  himself  one  evening  to  recruit  his  spirits 
and  recover  his  good  looks,  before  he  should  present  himself 
at  the  farm-house.  Though  he  had  but  little  vanity  him- 
self, and  had  a  reasonable  share  of  confidence  in  the  affec- 
tions of  his  love,  he  had  lived  long  enough  among  mankind, 
to  know,  that  even  our  best  and  nearest  friends  are  seldom 
so  purely  disinterested  as  not  to  acknowledge  an  involuntary 
and  tacit  subjection  to  the  influence  of  appearances.  Penny, 
ho  conjectured  (and  ho  did  not  think  the  worse  of  her  for 
the  suspicion)  would  not  like  him  the  less  in  his  smart  new 
jacket  and  trowscrs,  with  a  light  India  silk  handkerchief 
about  his  r.ock,  and  the  wearing  effects  of  long  travel  flung 
fr.m  him  by  a  night's  repose.  The  old  gentleman,  ho  was 
certain,  would  be  much  better  pleased  to  see  him  in  a  re- 
spectable trim ;  and  he  was  conscious  moreover,  though  ha 


4C  CARD  DRAAVING. 

did  not  make  this  one  of  liis  ostensible  motives,  that  ho 
■would  not  be  the  less  satisfied  v/ith  himself  for  appearing 
2)oint  device.  r 

The  village,  as  he  entered  it,  appeared  almost  deserted 
— the  masters  of  the  families  not  being  yet  returned  from 
their  daily  toil  on  the  river  whieh  flowed  near  them.  The 
doors  of  the  houses  were,  for  the  most  part,  shut  fast  aud 
hasped,  which  circumstance,  together  with  the  stillness  of 
the  streets,  in  which  he  only  heard  the  voices  of  some  rag- 
ged children  at  play  among  the  turf  kishes,  and  the  occa- 
sional inhospitable  growling  of  some  hairy  cur  (who  was 
afraid  to  venture  on  a  bark  of  open  defiance  or  hostility  in 
the  absence  of  its  human  protectors,)  gave  something  of  a 
holiday  air  to  the  scene.  Between  the  occasional  breaks 
in  the  row  of  houses  on  one  side,  the  broad  and  sheeted 
river  presented  itself  to  his  eyes,  its  surface  agreeably  diver- 
sified by  the  dark  and  red-sailed  fishing  boats,  turf-bo;. ts, 
and  large  merchant-vessels  wliich  floated  on  its  bosom,  and 
the  shadow  of  a  passing  cloud  on  its  green  and  sunny  waters. 

As  he  proceeded  through  t!ie  village  in  search  of  the 
house  which  Kinchela  had  indicaied  as  a  rendezvous,  hfa 
observetl  the  sign-boards  of  two  rival  public-houses,  swing- 
ing at  either  corner  of  the  street,  at  a  spot  where  it  was 
intersected  by  two  cross-roads. 

i>oth  were  distinguished  by  those  whimsical  devices  aud 
mottoes,  used  generally  in  Ireland  for  the  purpose  of  excit- 
ing mirth  in  the  liearts  of  the  passengers — those  adepts  ia 
the  human  character,  the  innkeepers,  being  made  aware  by 
long  experience,  that,  next  to  passion;  te  grief,  i  o  hing  in- 
clines a  man  more  strongly  to  look  for  good  licpior  aud  good 
company,  than  a  train  of  good  humour  once  set  on  fire 
within  his  heart.  One  of  tliosc  signs  presented  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  pewter  drinking  vessel  imprisoned  within  the 
grating  of  a  strong  gaol,  under  which  the  following  lines 
were  written  in  a  bold  dashing  hand :— 


1 

CARD  DRAWING.  42 

Te  jovial  foUoics  that  pass  along, 
Behold  me  Itere,  in  prison  strong, 
For  Four  pence  /  in  chains  do  lie 
Release  me  qiddcly,  or  I  shall  Dia' 

On  the  rival  sign-board,  the  JIuse  of  pa'nting  had  deli- 
neated the  effigy  of  a  bee-hive,  which  had  likewise  its  ap- 
propriate jingle  contributed  by  her  sister  deity  : — 

"  Within  tliis  liive 

We're  all  alive; 
Good  liquor  makes  us  funny 

If  you  are  dry 

As  ydu  pass  by, 
Step  in  and  taste  our  honey." 

With  the  latter  invitation  our  hero  complied,  leaving  the 
liberation  of  the  captive  on  the  other  side  to  the  next  vil- 
lage Howard  who  niiglit  cast  a  humane  eye  in  that  direction, 
moved  less,  however,  by  the  prospect  of  the  promised  honey 
within,  than  tiie  expectation  of  meeting  here  his  old  ac- 
quaintance before  named. 

He  found  the  house  unoccupied  by  any  but  the  ptthlican 
or  landlord,  who  was  seated,  in  a  hay-bottomed  chair,  by 
the  whitening  embers  of  a  turf  fire,  dandling  one  foot  softly 
in  the  air,  and  luxuriating  in  the  delights  of  a  well-filled 
pipe,  which  he  iutcrrnpted  only  at  intervals,  for  the  purpose 
of  giving  some  directions  to  a  slatternly  girl,  who  was 
siated  on  her  heels  at  one  end  of  the  room,  scouring  the 
pewter  glories  of  the  dresser  with  a  wisp  of  hay  and  wef 
sand.  He  received  Dorgan  with  the  respect  and  attention 
which  are  peculiarly  the  light  of  all  naval  and  military 
sojourners  at  places  of  amusement,  ushered  him  into  the 
boarded  parlour,  and  answered  readily  all  the  questions 
which  he  put  respecting  the  present  condition  of  Al'Loughlcu, 
whether  he  still  lived  with  his  daughter,  in  the  same  lonely 
honse  which  they  occupied  a  great  many  years  before,  and 
many  other  inquiries  more  interesting  to  him,  in  all  proba- 
bility, than  they  would  be  to  the  reader. 


42  CARD  DRAWING. 

The  landlord  was  at  length  summoned  to  attend  a  cus- 
tomer at  the  bar,  and  Duke  was  left  to  "  discuss"  (as  tlie 
phrase  is)  his  whiskey-and- water  (or  to  give  it  the  provin- 
cial term  his  whiskey-punch)  alone.  Although  Irishmen 
have  long  lain  under  the  imputation  of  a  fondness  more 
intense  than  is  consistent  with  the  character  of  a  well- 
deserver,  for  the  excitement  of  strong  liquor,  I  believe  the 
affection  which  subsists,  is  rather  that  Avhich  we  entertain 
fur  a  pleasant  acquaintance,  whom  we  are  happy  to  meet 
in  mixed  company,  than  that  which  we  feel  towards  a  friend 
with  whom  we  can  consume  whole  hours  in  solitary  com- 
munion (if  this  expression  may  escape  nncensured  by  Eng- 
lish judgments).  Dorgau  in  particular,  who  was  unprofes- 
sionally  and  unnationally  abstemious,  felt  little  pleasure  in 
continuing,  while  he  waited  the  arrival  of  his  friend,  to  .^ip 
the  diluted  lire  which  stood  before  him.  He  looked  around 
the  room  for  something  to  amuse  his  thoughts,  which  were 
flowing  too  rapidly  upon  him,  to  suul-r  that  he  should  re- 
main still,  until  Pryce  made  good  his  appointment ;  and 
after  turning  over  a  few  old  books  of  farming,  tattered 
volumes  of  law,  and  rudimental  works,  a  scrap-book  fell 
into  his  hands,  in  which  he  found  the  following  verses  writ- 
ten (iu  all  probaI)ility  by  way  of  practice  in  penmanship). 
Although  the  sentiment  was  expressed  in  language,  perhaps, 
a  little  too  line  fur  his  sympathy,  the  analogy  which  it  bore 
to  what  might  have  been  his  own  fate,  interested  him  suf- 
ficiently to  make  him  read  the  stanzas  through. 

THE  JOY  OF  HONOUK. 
I. 

The  tears  from  thcie  old  eyelids  crept. 
When  Deriuod  left  his  muther-laud— 

And  I  was  one  of  those  who  wept 
Upon  his  nectj,  and  press'd  his  hand. 

lie  ilid  not  p'leve  to  leave  us  tlien, 

IJ.e  hop'd  to  so'3  his  home  ayain — 

\\  itli  honours  twin'd  in  liis  bright  haiF) 

He  could  not  hope  to  gatlii-r  there. 


CARD  DRAWING.  43 

II. 

T«ar  after  year  rolled  fleetly  on — 

Lost  in  the  grave  of  buried  time — 
And  Dermod's  name  and  praise  had  won 

'J  htir  -nay  into  his  parent- clime; 
But  all  his  youthful  haunts  were  changed. 
The  wild  wood  perished  where  he  ranged— 
And  all  his  friends  died  one  by  one, 
Till  the  last  of  Dermod's  name  was  gone. 

III. 

I  sat,  one  eve,  in  Curra's  glade. 

And  saw  an  old  man  tottering  down, 
Where  the  first  veil  of  evening's  shade 

Had  given  the  heath  a  deeper  brown ; 
His  cheek  was  pale — his  long  hair  now 
Fell,  in  white  flakes,  o'er  his  aged  brow — 
But  the  same  young  soul  was  in  his  eye, 
And  1  knew  the  friend  of  my  infancy. 

IV. 

He  gazed  upon  the  silent  wood — 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow— 
The  hush  of  utter  solitude 

Slept  on  each  breathless  beechcn  bough 

"'ihat  lake  with  flowering  islets  strewed, 
That  skirts  the  lawn  and  Ijreaks  yon  wood— 
]  knt'W  in  youth  a  valley  green, 
The  seat  of  many  a  meny  scene. 

V. 

•*The  youths  that  graced  the  village  dance, 
Beneath  the  turf  they  trod  are  sleeping — - 
The  maidens,  in  whose  gentle  glance 

Tiieir  spirits  lived,  are  o'er  them  weeping- 
Sorrow  and  blight,  and  age  have  come  — 
Where  mirth  once  reigned  -  and  yotitli — nndbloom»i 
And  the  soft  charms  of  Nature's  prime 
Are  blasted  by  the  breath  of  Time. 

VI. 

"  Ar^d  hath  the  joy  tliat  honour  giv(>3, 

No  power  o'er  memories  like  tliis? 
All !  witless  is  the  man  who  lives 

To  soar  at  fame  and  spurn  at  bliss ! 


44  CARD  DRAWING. 

That  hatli  b  cii  mine — this  mic,lit  have  beetii 
Had  1  bill,  held  the  humble  moan — 
-And  passed  njion  my  jiiirent  soil 
A  lil'e  of  peace  and  quiet  tuiU 

VII. 

"And  is  it  thus  with  all  who  gain 

The  phantom  glory  of  a  name  ? 
That  ere  it  grace  their  bruws,  the  pain 

(if  their  long  search  hath  quench'd  the  flame 
That  young  ambition  lit — and  those 
Whose  praise  they  sought,  are  at  repose — - 
A  nd  they  stand  in  a  world  unknown — 
Admired — revered — unloved — alone  I 

VIII. 

"  I  want  my  early  playmates  back, 

My  friends  long  lost — but  ne'er  forgot — • 

Are  these  old  men  who  haunt  my  track, 

Wy  school-day  friends? — I  know  them  not  I 

Alas!   I  grieve  and  call  in  vain — 

Their  youth  will  never  come  again; 

But  it  is  sad  my  heart  should  feel 

Its  first  affections  youthful  still." 

"■  I  declare,  then,"  said  Dorgan  in  soliloquy,  as  he 
mingled  another  "  tumbler  o'  punch"  (the  first  having  in- 
sensibly disappeared,  while  he  was  poring  studiously  over 
the  above  composition),  and  looked  musingly  in  the  glass, 
only  a  little  puzzled — "  I  declare,  now,  I  can  understand 
what  the  fellow  means  very  well,  although  he  has  put  it 
into  that  crinkum-craukum,  fin^-spoken,  gingerbread  lan- 
guage ;  and  I  felt  just  the  same  thing  myself  since  I  came. 
This  very  landlord  o'  this  public-house  I  know  at  school — 
a  wild,  scatter-brained  3'oung  fellow,  that  would  box  a 
round,  or  climb  at  a  magpie's  nest  with  any  boy  in  tho 
parisii,  and  to  see  him  now  enter  the  room,  knocking  the 
ashes  otT  his  pipe  with  the  tip  of  his  little  finger,  hoping 
your  honour  is  convenient,  and  talking  of  the  duty  on 
licences  and  the  distillery  laws,  as  if  he  had  never  dune  any- 
thing since  he  was  born  but  jiuj  whiskey  puucli,  and  score 


CARD  DRAWIXa  45 

doable !  It  miuvLS  a  man  feel  as  if  lie  v/ere  thinking  <:( 
growing  old,  one  ti.ii3  or  another,  himself.  Going  to  '  lio 
beneath  the  turf  I  trod,'  as  this  poet  here  savs.  No 
matter  !"  he  continued,  indulging  in  a  more  liberal  draught 
than  he  had  yet  ventared  on,  "  this  is  the  way  of  the 
world — sic  transit  gloria  mundi ;  here  to-day  and  gone 
o'  Sunday.      Hush  !     Is  nx>t  thakt  Kinchcla  ?" 

lie  interrupted  himself,  t-n  hearing  a  voice  in  the  kitchen 
outside.  The  speaker  approached  the  door  of  the  room 
fl-here  he  sat,  and  entering  without  ceremony,  showed  him 
that  his  conjecture  was  perfectly  correct. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  Mr.  Dorgan,"  he  said,  making  what  he 
Oonsidered  a  very  courteous  bow — "  I'm  afeer'd  I  hep  you 
Tvaiten,  but  I  was  obleeged  to  be  at  the  Head  all  the  mor- 
nen,  gatheren  the  barnocks* — an'  I  couldn't  M'ell  afford  to 
lose  more  than  half  a  day  to  our  meeten  this  turn." 

Dorgaa  accepted  his  apology,  and  invited  him  to  a  cor- 
ner of  the  board,  and  a  share  of  the  good  things  with  which 
it  was  decorated.  Pryce  readily  seated  himself,  but  refused 
to  drink,  and  when  our  here  pressed  him  hard,  added  vehe- 
mence to  the  negative. 

"  0  come,"  said  Duke,  angrily,  "  I  will  say  that  you 
do  not  yet  look  on  me  as  a  friend  if  you  refuse  to  join  me 
in  a  glass.  There's  no  salt  in  the  liiiuur — and  you  may  be 
my  foe  to-raorrow,  if  you  like." 

"  Pho !  pho  !  sooner  than  you'd  be  sayen  anything  o' 
that  kind,  Duke,"  the  other  said,  with  some  confusion  of 
manner,  "  I'll  drink  the  ocean  dry  wit  you."  And  he  tilled 
a  glass  without  further  preamole. 

After  the  usual  commendations  on  the  quality  of  the 
materials  which  went  to  the  composition  of  their  popular 
beverage,  the  young  men  talked  freely  of  the  changes  which 
had  taken  place  in  the  affairs  of  the  neighbourhood,  dwell- 
ing on  the  intermediate  histories  of  all  whose  fortunes  were 
of  any  interest  to  the  sailor  from  their  association  with  his 
*  A  kind  of  sliell-fisli. 


46  CARD  DRAWING, 

early  life,  comparing  their  actual  fates  v,'li\\  what  might 
have  beeD  anticipated  from  his  knowledge  of  their  charac- 
ter in  boyhood — how  one  was  married — another  hanged — 
one  killed  at  a  hurling  match — another  transported  for 
sheep-stealing — wondering  at  every  circumstance  in  turn, 
and  at  length  chopping  round  (to  use  the  professional 
phrase  of  one  of  the  parties)  upon  the  old  and  favourite 
theme  of  M'Loughlen  and  his  daughter. 

Oa  this  subject,  Dorgau,  a  little  stimulated  by  the 
awakened  recollection  of  the  slights  cast  upon  hitn  by  the 
old  farmer  ;  and  not  a  little,  perhaps,  by  the  influence  of 
the  Irish  whiskey,  to  which  he  had  become  almost  a 
stranger  during  his  exile,  allowed  himself  a  liberty  of  speech 
which  he  had  afterward  deep  cause  to  regret.  Pryce,  nfter 
coinciding  in  the  justice  of  his  resentment,  and  even  adding 
some  observations  calculated  rather  to  aggravate  than 
assuage  it,  suddenly  changed  his  tone,  and  said  in  a  gentle 
voice  : — 

"  But  although  he  did  injure  you  surely,  Duke,  an'  that 
greatly,  I'd  like  I  could  prevail  on  you  to  forgive  and  for- 
get. Bear  an'  forbear  as  we're  commanded.  He's  an  old 
man,  an'  you're  a  young  one,  and  it  won't  be  long  until 
the  grave  will  draw^  a  line  between  ye,  that  you  may  wish 
to  pass,  to  make  friends  again,  an'  won't  be  able.  So 
don't  harbour  any  bad  designs  again'  poor  M'Loughlen,  I 
beg  o'  you." 

"  Oh,  I'll  make  the  pm-sc-proud  old  rogue  know  at  any 

rate  that "  he  interrupt'^d  himself,  on  perceiving  a  dark 

shadow  thrown  on  the  table  at  wliicii  he  was  seated.  On 
looking  up,  he  perceived  an  elderly  gentleman,  dressed  in 
black,  with  whip  and  spurs,  and  silver  buckles  at  his  knees, 
standing  between  him  and  the  window.  He  addressed 
Dorgan  with  a  manner  of  solemn  and  authoritative, 
although  very  mild  and  dignified  rei)roof. 

"  I  have  been  listening  to  you,"  said  he,  "  for  the  last 
few  minutes " 


CAHD  DRAWING,  4T 

"  Have  you?"  intcmipted  Dnkc,  "  then  jou  have  /nadc 
more  free  than  welcome,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Do  not  condemn  me  as  an  eaves-dropper/  T<aJd  tlie 
gentleman,  calmly,  "  until  you  are  certain  that  I  deserve 
the  name.  I  did  not  intend  to  overhear  yon ;  but  if  I 
had  used  so  unwarrantable  a  means  to  serve  you,  young 
man,  you  should  respect  your  Maker  moj-t;  chan  to  insult 
his  minister." 

"I  really  ask  your  pardon,"  said  Dorgan,  rising — "  I  was 
not  aAvarc  of  your  profession,  father,  «i  1  would  not  have 
nsed  these  M'ords." 

"  There  was  a  f.iult  on  both  sides,"  said  the  clergyman 
— "  however,  before  I  go  (as  I  only  stepped  in  hei'e,  in  the 
expectation  of  meeting  a  friend,)  I  will  venture  to  pursue 
the  subject  a  little  farther.  I  heard  you  speak  in  terms  of 
strong  resentment  of  one  of  my  worthiest  parishioners. 
Thei-e  is  not  a  man  of  his  means  and  station  in  the  country 
who  has  done  more  good  to  the  poor,  and  to  all  who  needed 
his  service,  than  that  very  man.  He  is  a  fond  father — 
a  religious  observer  of  God's  law — and  a  friend  to  all — 
even  to  you — (do  u>ot  start,  for  I  know  you,  sir,)  who  are 
no  friend  of  his.  I  have  often  heard  him  mention,  with 
deep  regret,  the  hard  language  he  used  towards  you  in  his 
younger  and  mo'C  passionate  days — and  yet  thia  is  the 
man  whom  you  denounce  by  an  epithet,  which  it  doea  not  be- 
come me  to  repeat,  even  for  the  purpose  of  reprehending  it. 
I  would  recommend  to  you  for  your  own  sake,  a«d  that  of 
all  in  whom  you  have  an  interest,  to  acquii-e  tlie  virtue  of 
subduing  those  violent  resentments.  Keme:nber  that  '  the 
patient  is  better  than  the  strong  man  ;  and  \va  that  ruleth 
his  mind  than  the  overthrower  of  cities,'  " 

"  Well,"  said  Dorgan,  "  you  will  not  Chi'.ik  the  worse  of 
me  for  speaking  my  mind  freely,  at  all  events." 

"  Ay,  young  man,  ttiere  would  be  a  merit  in  that  frank- 
ness if  it  imj)lied  a  purpose  of  amendment,  as  well  as  a  con- 
sciousness of  error.     Lut  it  is  the  misfortune  of  your  couu- 


48  CARD  DRAwma. 

tiymen  and  mine,  to  imagine  tliat  open-hcartedness  is  a 
virtue,  even  when  it  only  consists  in  making  a  boast  of 
guilty  propensities,  which  other  men  deem  it  prudent  to 
conceal.  I  mentioned  to  you  the  merits  of  him  against 
whom  you  have  been  railing,  for  the  purpose  of  showing 
what  a  darkeuer  of  the  mind  and  senses  this  private  resent- 
ment is — and  how  it  can  so  change  the  eyes  and  heart,  as 
to  make  one  man  see  evil,  where  all  others  can  discern 
nought  but  good.  It  is  the  indulgence  of  this  dreadful  and 
selfish  propensity,  that  has  made  the  gibbets  of  our  country 
groan  under  the  burthen  of  so  many  hundreds  of  her  young 
and  high-spirited  children.  I  warn  you  to  beware  of  har- 
bouring resentment  against  your  brother."  And  saying 
this,  the  clergyman  left  the  room,  followed  by  Kincliela, 
who  pleaded  some  business  with  the  publican. 

Dorgan  remained  for  some  time  after  in  an  attitude  of 
stupid  abstraction  and  amazement,  not  altogether  occasioned 
so  much  by  the  reproof  which  he  had  undergone,  as  by  the 
strange  coincidence  between  the  clergyman's  last  words  and 
the  warning  given  by  the  Card-drawer  on  that  very  morn- 
ing. "What!"  he  exclaimed  at  length,  striking  the  table 
forcibly  with  his  clenched  fist,  and  speaking  with  much 
vehemence ;  "  are  all  the  people  mad,  that  they  warn  me 
at  every  step  I  take  to  beware  of  murder  and  the  gallows? 
Do  I  meditate  bloodshed  ?  Let  me  take  my  own  heart  to 
task.  Is  it  that  of  a  midnight  cut-throat  ?  It  surely  is 
not.  I  have  never  spilled  one  red  drop  of  living  blood  in 
my  life,  but  that  f  jr  which  I  ventured  my  own  in  the  service 
of  my  country.  I  would  not  set  my  foot  on  that  fly  that 
is  crawling  there,  if  it  were  to  purchase  the  three  kingdoms. 
What  then  do  the  people  mean  ?  Is  my  forehead  stamped 
like  Cain's,  with  the  mark  of  blood  ?  Is  murderer  in  my 
face?  If  Nature  has  Avrit^en  the  word  there,  she  lied  foully, 
for  the  heart  of  the  young  lamb  is  not  more  free  from  the 
thought  or  thirst  of  violence  than  mine." 

A  little  vcUeved  by  the  fervour  with  whhh  he  thu  i  an* 


CARD  DK AWING.  49 

burtliened  his  spirit,  Dorgan  prepared  for  his  night's  rest  in 
the  inn,  and  was  shov/n  by  the  landlord  into  a  double  bed- 
ded room,  after  bidding  good  night  to  Kinchela,  who  Avas 
to  return  to  Loup  Head  early  in  the  morning.  Notwith- 
standing all  the  efforts  which  his  companion  made  to  banish 
from  his  memory  the  recollection  of  the  double  warning  he 
had  received  in  the  course  of  the  day,  the  circumstance  still 
hung  upon  his  mind,  and  troubled  his  slumbers.  The  forms 
of  a  methodical  execution — the  blanketed  finisher  of  the 
law — the  fatal  cart — the  tree — cliains — night-cap — and  all 
the  other  awful  et  cetera  of  a  death  untimely  and  ignomi- 
nious, floated  with  a  horrible  and  oppressive  influence  upon 
his  bi  ain  ;  and  he  awoke  just  in  time  to  save  his  neck  from 
the  noose  which  was  all  but  fastened  on  it. 

It  was  dark  midnight ;  and  he  felt  his  head  almost  riven 
with  a  cruel  ache,  the  result  in  all  probability  of  his  unac- 
customed libations,  together  with  the  fatigue  he  had  under- 
gone the  preceding  day  and  night.  Wishing  to  bind  it 
round  with  a  silk  liaudkerchief,  he  stretched  his  hand  out 
to  the  chair  on  which  he  had  laid  his  clothes,  but  to  his 
great  surprise  found  that  they  had  been  removed.  He  rose 
and  groped  about  the  room  for  some  time  in  the  dark,  but 
with  no  better  success  :  he  was,  in  fine,  obhged  to  retm'u 
to  his  bed  and  sleep  off  the  illness  as  well  as  he  could  until 
morning. 

Whatever  his  astonishment  might  have  been  at  missing 
his  clothes  during  the  night,  it  certainly  did  not  exceed 
that  which  he  felt  on  opening  his  eyes  next  day  and  pei^ 
ceiving  them  exactly  in  the  place  Avhere  he  had  laid  them 
the  evening  before.  The  royal  father  of  Badroulboudour 
never  rubbed  his  eyes  so  often  or  in  such  astonishment,  at 
the  disappearance  of  the  enchanted  palace  of  his  son-in-law. 
Kinchela  had  already  departed  ;  aud  our  hero,  after  dis- 
charging the  duty  of  morning  prayer  with  somewhat  more 
than  his  usual  fervency,  and  consuming  a  reasonable  por- 


50  CAED  DRAWING. 

tion  of  the  publican's  groceries,  paid  his  bill  like  a  raan  of 
honour,  and  departed. 

Tlie  calmness  of  the  morning,  the  fresh  look  of  the  green 
fields,  the  sweetness  of  the  open  air,  and  the  sight  of  the 
hills  and  crags  where  the  days  of  his  childhood  had  passed 
so  merrily — contributed  to  wean  his  mind  from  the  gloomy 
reflections  to  which  the  occurrences  of  the  preceding  day 
had  given  rise.  Every  step  that  brought  him  nearer  to  the 
dwelling  of  his  love,  made  liis  heart  bound  with  a  freer  and 
happier  movement  within  his  bosom,  until  at  length  the  ex- 
quisite poignancy  of  expectation  became  almost  too  eager 
and  tumultuous  for  unmixed  pleasure.  He  passed  the  old 
school-house  in  the  glen,  the  chapel,  the  inch  which  was 
used  for  a  play-ground,  and  at  length,  on  arriving  at  the 
summit  of  a  gentle  eminence,  beheld  the  farm-house  (a  neat 
little  band-box,  in  which  his  love  lay  treasured  like  one  of 
her  own  new  bonnets)  clustered  in  among  a  grove  of 
Scotch  lirs,  and  presenting  its  cheerful  white- washed  front 
to  the  broad  face  of  the  Shannon,  from  which  it  was  only 
separated  by  a  green  and  sloping  meadow. 

It  was  I'ather  early  when  Dorgan  left  the  inn  where  he 
passed  the  night,  so  that  he  was  a  little  surprised  to  see  a 
considerable  number  of  persons  collected  round  the  door. 
They  passed  rapiilly  in  and  out  of  the  house,  and  a  few 
hastened  across  the  fields  in  tlie  direction  of  the  village, 
while  others  passed  them  after  a  hasty  greeting,  and  seeming 
0  coni'cy  the  tidings  of  some  important  event.  On  a  sud- 
den, while  Doigan  continued  looking  towards  the  open  door, 
a  woman  rushed  from  it,  hurried  through  the  crowd,  tore 
her  cap  from  her  head,  and,  while  her  long  hair  fell  over 
her  shoulders,  began  to  clap  her  liands,  and  utter  the  most 
heart- piercing  screams.  A  terrible  sensation  lodged  itself 
upon  the  heart  of  young  Dorgan  as  he  heard  this  fatal  song, 
which  his  memory  enabled  him  to  recognise  as  the  death- 
wail  of  his  country.  lie  was  about  to  spring  from  the 
low  hedge  on  which  he  sat,  and  liasien  to  the  iiouse,  wheu 


CARD  DRAWING.  61 

he  was  stoppea  by  a  -woinan  who  had  been  sitting  on  the 
bank-side  in  the  sunshine,  arranging  a  small  pack  of  rabbit- 
skins  and  goose-quills  which  she  carried. 

"  Tee  you  !  tee  you  !*  sailor !"  she  exclaimed,  "Tee  you! 
Don't  go  a-near  the  house  !  Are  you  light  ?t  They're  on 
the  watch  for  you.  Oh  !  you  foolish  cratur,  why  didn't 
you  do  me  bidden.  I'd  rather  the  cards  to  be  out  itself, 
this  once,  than  to  have  such  a  clane,  likely  boy  as  what  you 
ai"e  coom  to  any  harm  on  the  head  of  it." 

"You  infernal  hag  !"  said  Duke,  turning  fiercely  upon 
her,  "  are  you  mad  ?  Let  go  my  dress  !  You  are  all 
mad  together.     What  watch? — Who?  —  What  do  you 


mean 


"  You  do  well  to  be  ignorant  of  it,  to  be  sure.  There 
was  murder  done  in  that  house  last  night,  and — " 

"Hold!"  said  Dorgan,  turning  pale  as  death,  and  stag- 
gering forward,  until  he  supported  himself  by  grasping  the 
extended  arm  of  the  Card- drawer.  The  woman  paused  and 
looked  amazedly  on  him,  while  his  head  drooped  upon  his 
breast ;  a  dreadful  sickness  laboured  at  his  heart,  and  his 
brain  felt  as  though  it  reeled  within  his  head.  At  length, 
raising  his  eyes  heavily  to  heaven,  while  his  words  fell  from 
him  with  so  faint  an  emphasis  that  the  utterance  of  each 
single  syllable  seemed  to  require  all  the  exertion  his  nerves 
could  muster,  he  said  i-lowly  and  feebly,  "  Great  Heaven ! 
if  now,  after  my  long  absence  from  my  native  land,  after  all 
the  danger  through  Avhich  the  Almighty  has  preserved  me, 
both  by  storm  and  battle, — if  now,  the  first  day  of  my  com- 
ing home,  the  first  day  I  was  to  meet  my  old  fiiends,  my 
first  love,  in  health  and  happiness — if  I  am  doomed  to  see 
her,  after  all  our  love,  and  our  hopes,  and  our  long  parting, 
a  bleeding  corpse  before  me,  I  will  strive  to  submit  and  bear 
tho  judgment ;  but  do  not  blame  me  if  my  heart  breaks  under 
It — and  if Tell  me,"  he  continued  pressing  the  Card- 

•  To  you !    Beware  1  f  Mad. 


52  CAKD  DRAWING. 

drawer's  arm,  and  pantinG:  with  apprehension,  while  he  dared 
not  look  iri  her  flice,  "  Who  was  murdered  ?" 

"  0  thin,  dear  knows,  sir,  ould  M'Loughlen  was — an' 
I'd  think  that  enough,  an'  not  to  go  farther." 

Again  Dorgan  paused,  while  his  limbs  shook  with  appre- 
hension— "  And — and — his  daughter  ?" 

"  Oh,  allilu!  Penny,  is  it  ?  Oh,  indeed  I  wisht  himselj 
was  as  well  as  her,  an'  'twould  save  her  a  sighth  o'  grief." 

Dorgan  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands,  and  leaned  for 
some  time,  silent  and  motionless,  with  his  back  against  the 
bank.  At  length,  rising  silently,  with  as  much  firmness  as 
he  could  command,  he  began  to  move  towards  the  house  in 
silence. 

"  Don't  you  hear  me,  Avhat  I'm  tellin'  you,  child?"  said 
tlie  Card-drawer. 

"  What  do  you  say  ? — '* 

"  They're  all  on  the  look-out  for  the  murderers,  and  exa- 
minen  'era  all  right  an'  left — gentle  and  simple.  Eemem- 
ber  the  knave  o'  clubs." 

"  Pooh — pooh  !"  Dorgan  exclaimed,  shaking  his  arm 
from  her  grasp,  and  hurrying  toward  the  house. 

"  Pooh,  is  it  ?"  said  the  indignant  forestaller  of  the 
Destinies — "  Shastone  pooh  !  Gondoutha  wisha  pooh  ! 
That's  my  thanks.  May  be  'twould  be  a  new  story  wit  you 
before  you'd  leave  that  roof,  then  ;  an'  I'd  be  sorry  it  should, 
for  all.  Well  then,  I  declare,  now,"  she  added,  crossing 
her  hands  in  more  composed  soliloquy — "  one  oughtn't 
to  be  funnen  on  things  o'  that  rnture,  at  all' — for  see  how 
what  I  did,  be  way  of  a  punishment  to  frighten  him,  is 
coming  very  near  tlie  truth  after  all ! — I  declare,  it's  a 
droll  thing  to  think  of — Easy !  isn't  that  the  ])riest  I  see 
conien  over  the  road  ?  0  murther  alive  !  I'll  be  kilt  if 
he  sees  me,  after  he  warneu  me  out  o'  the  parish  last  Ad- 
vent." She  huddled  her  pack  hastily  up,  and  ran  along 
under  cover  of  the  hedge,  in  a  different  direction  from  that 
by  which  his  reverence,  the  same  gentleman  under  whoso 


CARD  DRAWING.  53 

consnre  Dorgan  had  lain  at  the  inn  the  night  before,  w?g 
approachhig  the  farm. 

A  dreary  scene  awaited  our  young  hero  in  the  interior 
of  the  house.  He  passed  in  without  attracting  any  notico 
fi-om  the  crowds  of  persons  wno  were  too  busy,  in  hearing 
or  telling  the  circumstances  of  the  fearful  occurrence  which 
had  taken  place,  to  suffer  then-  attention  to  be  divided  by 
the  appearance  of  a  stranger.  In  the  centre  of  the  neatly 
furnished  kitchen  was  a  long  deal  table,  on  which  was  laid 
the  corpse,  with  the  clothes  in  which  he  had  been  found — 
and  all  the  awful  appearances  of  a  violent  fate  which  he 
had  undergone.  The  gray  hairs,  matted  and  stifle — and 
the  wrinkled  features  distorted  with  the  still  surviving  ex- 
pression of  horror,  and  frightfully  dabbled  in  blood,  re- 
mained still  untouched,  unchanged — an  indication  that  the 
coroner's  inquiry  Avas  not  yet  concluded.  It  was,  in  fact, 
at  this  moment,  proceeding  in  an  interior  room.  In  the 
capacious  chimney  corner  were  seated  a  number  of  old 
women,  who  declared,  as  they  socially  passed  the  single  pipe 
from  one  to  another,  that  the  old  man  would  make  a 
good  corpse,  when  the  blood  was  washed  off  and  the  hair 
combed  sleek  upon  the  brow.  An  old  man,  in  another 
corner,  was  entertaining  a  number  of  wondering  auditors, 
with  an  account  of  a  murder  far  more  horrible  than  the 
present,  Mhich  had  occurred  within  his  own  memory  ;  and 
tiarther  on,  were  seated  a  circle  of  females,  preparing,  by 
low  modulations  of  the  death-cry,  to  shine  in  the  rivalry  of 
tlie  evening  wail.  Two  or  three  of  the  sincere  friends  of 
the  dead  man,  standing  near  his  body,  perused  in  heavy 
gilimce,  and  Mith  grief-struck  features,  that  face  which  even 
an  enemy  could  not  contemplate,  disfigured  and  dragged  as 
it  was  in  the  parting  agony,  without  an  emotion  of  ])ity 
and  forgiveness — if  not  remorse.  One  of  these  men  was 
Duke  Dorgan. 

He  learned,  from  the  convers;Ttion  of  those  who  stood 
around  liim,  that  a  party  had  entered  the  house  on  the  pre- 


54  CARD  DRAWING. 

vions  evening,  in  pursuance,  as  it  was  said,  of  a  threat  which 
had  been  conveyed  to  poor  M'Loughlen  a  short  time  before, 
warning  him  not  to  bid  for  a  certain  farm  ia  the  neighbour- 
hood, the  former  tenant  of  which  had  been  ejected  for  non- 
payment of  rent.  M'Louglilen  had  disregarded  this  menace, 
and  in  some  measure  brought  on  himself  the  consequences 
wliich  had  been  laid  before  him.  His  daughter,  and  a  little 
girl,  his  niece,  were  the  only  persons  in  the  house  at  the 
time ;  and  the  latter  alone,  an  intelligent  child  about  seven 
or  eight  years  of  age,  was  enabled  to  see  the  whole  proce- 
dure, from  a  loft  on  which  she  usually  slept.  Dorgan  en- 
tered the  room  where  the  coroner's  inquest  was  held,  just 
as  that  gentleman  was  beginning  to  take  down  the  deposi- 
tion of  tiie  infant  witness. 

"  Well,  my  little  darling,"  said  the  Coroner,  "  tell  your 
story  now,  like  a  good  girl.  Don't  be  afraid  of  these  gen- 
tlemen ;  we  are  all  your  friends,  and  we'll  take  care  that 
nobody  shall  do  you  any  harm." 

"  I  will,  ser,"  said  the  little  girl.  "This  was  the  way  of 
it.  Uncle  Avas  sitten  there  abroad  a-near  the  kitchen  tire, 
on  the  sugan  chair,  an'  Penny  was  readen  a  chapter  out  o' 
the  Bible  to  him,  au'  Tom  L)ooly,  our  boy,  was  out  looken 
at  the  bounds,  to  see  v/ould  any  o'  the  Key's  cows  be  tres- 
passen,  an'  meself  was  just  out  o'  my  first  sleep  above  upon 
the  loft,  over  right  the  fire-place,  when  I  heard  a  tundereu 
rap  coom  to  the  b:ick  doore." 

"  Very  well,  m\  girl,  very  good  child,"  the  Coroner  said, 
while  he  continued  making  his  memoranda.  "  Well  ?  you 
heard  a  knock  h" 

"  1  diJ,  s^'r.  Penny  dropt  the  book  in  a  fright,  an'  coom 
Bn'  thrua  her  arms  about  uncle's  neck.  '0  murther,  fether! 
what's  that,  I  wonder  ?'  says  Penny.  '  It's  the  boys,*  1  tear,' 
says  he,  '  Heaven  i)reserve  my  child !'  says  he.  So  he  put 
Penny  into  tlie  corner,  an'  then  the  party  broke  the  dool 

*  The  familiar  name  for  Insurcreuts, 


CARD  TRACING.  55 

(I  heard  it  craslien),  an'  coom  in  an'  began  croosfen*  uncle 
with  stonep,  while  he  kep  'cm  off  wit  the  chair.  At  last, 
they  puU't  the  chair  from  him,  an'  bid  him  go  on  his  knees 
to  be  shot.  '0  boys,'  says  he,  'don't  take  my  life,  an'  I'll 
give  np  the  farm.'  '  It's  too  late  now,'  says  one  of  'em — 
'  why  didn't  you  take  the  warnen  whin  it  was  given  yon  ?' 
With  that  he  was  going  to  strike  him  with  a  piece  of  a  smf 
he  had  in  his  hand,  whin  Penny  ran  scrcechen  out  o'  the 
corner,  an'  tuk  him  by  the  coat  to  pull  him  away  from 
uncle ;  but  he  threw  her  back  again'  the  wall,  an'  then  he 
began  cutten  uncle  on  the  head  with  the  s^e,  till  he  fell  back 
on  the  floore  groanen.  '  You  done  enough  now,'  says  one 
of  the  party  that  was  with  him,  '  he  never  'II  see  daylight 
agen — he  hasn't  a  kick  in  him.'  '  I  owed  that  much  to 
him  a  long  while,  then,'  says  the  man  as  they  were  goeu 
out  the  doore.  Uncle  was  stretched  a'most  the  first  blow 
he  gave  him,  an'  veri/  justly,  for  it  was  a  great  stroke 
surely.'* 

Here  the  girl  began  to  cry  and  tremble,  as  if  labouring 
tinder  great  anxiety.  "I'll  be  kilt  now  entirely,"  she  said, 
"  for  there's  one  o'  the  men  that  murdered  uncle  liss'ueu  to 
me," 

A  general  exclamation  of  astonishment  and  alarm  broke 
from  the  circle  at  this  naive  declaration.  The  doors  were 
closed  by  the  C'oroner's  desire,  and  the  girl  was  asked  to 
point  out  the  person  whom  she  recognised. 

"  I'd  be  afeerd  he'd  kill  me."  she  said,  weeping. 

"  Do  not  fear  it,"  said  the  Coroner,  taking  her  into  his 
lap,  and  patting  her  head  ;  "  we  are  too  strong  and  too 
many  for  him.     Where  is  he,  pet?" 

"  There  he  is,  standen  a- nigh  the  table,  m  the  sailor's 
clothes." 

She  pointed  to  Dorgan,  who  felt,  while  her  small  finger 
was  tremblingly  directed  towards  him,  as  if  he  were  sui-- 

•  FeUlnrj  at  bim,  f  Scythe. 


56  CARD  DBAWINO. 

rounded  by  tlic  phantoms  of  a  hideous  droiani.  He  could 
scarcely  believe  that  the  fate  with  which  he  had  been  so 
shigiilaily  threatened  was  in  reality  to  be  fultilled ;  and  he 
could  do  nothing  more  than  gape  and  stare  around  him, 
until  tlie  rough  hands  of  two  of  the  men  present,  grasping 
his  collar,  and  dragging  liim  before  the  Coroner's  chair,  con- 
vinced him  that  the  scene  and  the  event  were  directly  the 
reverse  of  ideal. 

"Tills  is  a  serious  charge  that  is  brought  against  you, 
young  man,"  said  the  Coroner.     "Wiiat  is  your  name  ?" 

"  Uoi'gan,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  have  served  in  his  Ma- 
jesty's navy,  and  have  only  arrived  in  Ireland  the  day  before 
yesterday." 

A  murmuring  of  recognition  passed  among  the  people  who 
crowded  the  room,  and  one  of  them  whispered  to  the  Coro- 
ner, who  nodded  as  if  in  token  of  assent. 

"  You  knew  the  deceased  ?"  he  said,  again  addressing 
Dorgan. 

"  I  did,  many  years  since." 

"  You  owed  him  a  spite,  I  believe  ?" 

"I  owe  no  man  a  spite.  That  is  a  coward's  passion. 
He  refused  me  the  hand  of  his  daughter,  when  I  was  very 
young,  and  I  confess  my  resentment  against  liim  was  strong; 
but  I  came  home  Avith  an  altered  spirit,  anxious  to  see  and 
to  be  reconciled  to  him." 

"  Those  were  not,  justice  compels  me  to  declare,"  said 
a  voice  behind  Dorgan,  "the  sentiments  which  1  heard  you 
express  towards  him  yesterday  evening.  In  the  parlour  ijf 
the  Bee-hive,  I  heard  this  very  young  sailor  speak  in  terms 
of  the  vilest  reproach  against  my  poor  murdered  friend, 
M'Louglden." 

Dorgan  looked  over  his  shoulder,  and  behold  the  clergy- 
man with  whom  he  had  been  speaking.  "I  cannot,  nor  am 
I  anxious  to  deny  that  I  did  use  such  expressions,"  said  he, 
a  little  confused,  in  spite  of  his  consciousness  of  right,  tit 
the  corroborative  force  which  this  unfortunate  circumstance 


CARD  DRAWING.  57 

was  likely  to  give  to  the  mistaken  testimony  of  the  child — 
"  but  I  spoke  then  under  unusual  irritation,  I  had  been  in- 
dulging a  little  too  freely  in  the  strong  liquor  that  was 
placed  before  me,  and  might  have  said,  perhaps,  more  than 
I  ought." 

"  Ay,  and  done  more  than  you  ought,  sir,  perhaps  from 
the  same  cause.  Doctor  IMahony's  evidence  is  important, 
however,"  the  Coroner  continued,  writing. 

"  It  would  be,"  said  Dorgan,  with  a  sudden  confidence 
brightening  in  his  manner,  "  but  that  I  have  one  witness 
who  will  decide  the  question  of  my  innocence  at  once.  There 
stands  the  landlord  of  the  inn ;  he  knows  that  I  passed  the 
night  under  his  roof." 

"I  declare,  gentleman  sailor,"  said  the  landlord,  affecting 
the  euphony  of  the  greater  number  of  his  class — "  I'd  prefer 
you  didn't  appale  to  my  evijunce — I  don't  know  who  may 
be  the  perpetraathur  of  this  horrid  fact — but  if  I  must  give 
my  judgment  in  the  case,  I  nnist  say  that  I  slep  in  a  room, 
the  comrade  o'  that  you  hired,  I  heard  you  rise  in  the  ob- 
scurity o'  the  night  an'  walk  most  surprising  about  the  room, 
an'  my  wife  testiiied  to  me  that  she  had  audience  o'  the 
doore  outside  openen  an  sliutten  a  while  before.  It  was  a 
contraary  thing  for  you  to  direct  application  to  me,  for  I 
profess  without  maning  to  be  litigious  or  factious,  I  have 
nothen  commendable  to  vouchsafe  in  your  favour."  And 
80  saying,  with  the  air  of  a  Dogberry,  the  eloquent  host 
retired  from  the  gaze  of  the  crowd  into  his  former  place, 
satisfied  that  he  had  impressed  the  company  with  the  highest 
respect  for  the  perspicuity  and  elegance  of  phraseology  which 
he  displayed. 

There  was  no  other  witness  to  his  alibi,  who  might  not 
have  been  imposed  upon  by  the  same  appearances,  and 
Dorgan  felt  as  if  a  net  were  weaving  around  him,  from 
which  he  should  in  vain  seek  to  disentangle  himself. 

*'  All  these  circumstances  become  more  important  aa 
thev  corroborate  each  othei\"  said  the  Coroner,     "  I  am 


68  CARD  DRAWING. 

afraid,  young  sir,  that  it  will  task  your  ingenuity  hard  to 
bear  you  safely  through  tliem  all." 

Dorgan  paused  for  a  moment,  and  pressed  his  hand  on 
his  brow  in  deep  agitation.  At  last,  starting  from  his 
reverie  with  a  sudden  and  passionate  vehemence — "  Let 
Miss  M'Loughleu  be  called,"  he  exclaimed — "  She  saw  the 
murderer,  she  is  your  first  witness.  Let  her  come  quickly, 
or  my  life  will  be  drivelled  away  by  fools  and  children." 

"  You  would  do' well,  sir,"  said  the  Coroner,  after  re- 
questing the  clergyman  to  go  for  the  unhappy  girl,  "  to 
measure  your  language  by  the  circumstances  in  which  you 
are  placed.  The  ground  on  which  you  stand  does  not  ap- 
pear to  be  the  firmest  possible." 

"  Peace,  and  be  silent !"  cried  Dorgan,  fiercely  and 
loudly.  "  The  ground  on  which  I  stand  is  the  ground  of 
my  own  innocence,  and  that  I  will  maintain  after  my  own 
fasliion." 

"  I  hope  you  will  prove  it  tenable,"  said  the  Coroner. 

"  If  it  be  undermined  by  others,  in  malice,  or  in  wanton 
negligence,"  said  our  hero,  "  may  the  I'uia  fall  on  the  heads 
of  the  contrivers  !" 

*'  Amen  !"  was  the  reply. 

The  throng  at  the  door-way  here  separated,  and  Dor- 
gan's  attention  was  rivctted  by  an  object  of  new  and  en- 
grossing interest.  The  priest  entered,  supporting  on  his 
arm  the  slight  and  drooping  figiu'e  of  a  young  woman  of  an 
excelling  beauty  both  of  face  and  person,  although  the  effect 
of  the  terrible  shock  which  she  had  undergone,  considerably 
abated  the  fresh  and  healthy  bloom  that  was  the  legitimate 
property  of  the  former.  She  was  dressed  in  a  plain  dark 
cotton  gown,  wit'.i  a  bkie  silk  ribbon  tied  simply  round  her 
well-formed  head,  while  her  light  and  polished  curls  shaded 
her  pale  features,  and  her  deep  blue  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
ground  with  a  strong  effort  at  the  calmness  of  resignation, 
as  the  clergyman  whispered  some  words  of  encouragement 
and  comfort  in  her  ear.     A  dead  silence  took  place  as  soon 


CARD  DK AWING.  59 

83  she  nntle  lier  fippcniar.ee,  ivliich  coTitnineil  until  she 
liad  been  cuiidiicf.ed  to  a  chair  near  the  centre  of  Ihe 
room. 

Doigan,  after  pausing  for  some  time,  in  order  to  muster 
all  his  strength  of  mind,  walked  towards  his  love,  and  tak- 
ing her  hand,  while  she  seemed  scarcely  conscious  of  tlie 
action,  in  his,  said  gently,  "  It  is  a  sad  meeting  that  has 
been  reserved  (l-r  us,  Pennie ;  but  do  you  not  know  me  ?" 

The  poor  girl  had  not,  fiom  the  time  of  the  murder  up 
to  the  present  moment,  indulged  in  any  of  those  salutary 
bursts  of  grief,  in  which  the  loaded  heart  finds  safety  from 
breaking  when  it  is  oppressed  with  sorrow  too  nn'glity  for 
its  narrow  limits  to  contain.  'I'lie  more  violent,  therefore, 
was  the  rush  of  passion,  when  a  channei  was  at  length 
aflbrded,  by  which  the  long  pent-up  and  accumulating 
agony  was  enabled  to  discharge  itself.  When  she  recog- 
nised her  lover,  uttering  a  shrill  and  piercing  shriek,  which 
darted  like  an  electric  shock  through  the  nerves  of  the 
hearers,  she  flung  herself  upon  his  neck,  and  hung  in  a 
convulsion  of  mingled  tears  and  sobs  around  him.  Dorgan 
supported  and  endeavoured  to  soothe  lier,  while  his  own 
tears  flowed  in  abundance,  and  the  eyes  of  many  of  the 
company  showed  that  their  hearts  were  not  proof  against 
the  suddenness  of  the  appeal  made  to  them. 

*'  Oh,  Dorgan,  my  own  true  friend,  are  you  come  in- 
deed ?"  she  exclaimed,  gazing  in  his  face,  as  if  to  be  assured 
that  she  was  not  giving  to  a  stranger  the  welcome  that  was 
his  right — "  Oli,  Dorgan,  I  hoped  that  I  should  have  the 
happiness  to  see  you  both  friends  once  more — for  he  often 
and  often  spoke  of  you,  and  longed  for  your  return,  to  tell 
you  that  his  heart  was  changed  ; — but  you  have  come  to 
see  a  greater  change  than  that.  Cold  enough  his  heart  is 
now,  Dorgan,  towards  you  and  all.  He  will  not  press 
your  hand  if  you  take  it  now.  Oh,  do  not  blame  me, 
father,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  caught  the  clergyman's  eye 
fixed  ou  her  with  an  expres::ion  of  reproof,   "  I  am  wrong 


60  CARD  DR.UYING. 

— I  "now  I  am — "brd  my  heart  •will  break  If  I  do  not  give 
it  Avords." 

"  5Iy  own  love,  take  comfort,"  said  Dorgan,  pressing  her 
hand  and  speaking  low  to  her — "  You  have  lost  a  kind  and 
p;ood  parent — but  you  are  not  yet  an  orphan,  I  will  be  a 
lather,  and  friend,  and  brother  to  you,  while  I  live.  Try, 
and  be  composed  like  a  sweet  girl." 

Few  exhortations  are  attended  with  more  influence  tlian 
those  which  proceed  from  the  lips  of  those  we  love.  The 
interests  of  two  hearts,  united  like  those  of  our  hero  and 
1  is  mistress,  are  so  closely  blended,  so  perfect  and  harmo- 
nious an  understanding  exists  between  them,  that  an  admo- 
nition, addressed  from  one  to  the  other,  is  received  with  as 
ready  a  deference  as  a  suggestion  of  its  own  will.  The 
effect,  which  all  the  remonstrances  of  her  graver  and  more 
venerable  friends  failed  to  produce,  was  brought  to  pass  in 
an  instant  by  the  few  words  which  Dorgan  addressed  to 
her ;  and  Pennie  prepared  herself  to  give  evidence  in 
some  composure,  while  Dorgan,  once  more  leaviug  her  side, 
resumed  his  place  near  the  table. 

Pennie  detailed  the  circumstances  of  the  murder  In  nearly 
the  same  words  as  her  little  cousin,  until  she  came  to  that 
part  of  the  transaction  at  which  she  was  said  to  have  flung 
herself  between  her  father  and  the  assassin. 

"  You  must  have  had  an  opportunity  then,"  said  the 
Coroner,  "  of  observing  him  very  closely.  Will  yon  have 
the  goodness  to  look  round  the  room,  and  see  whether  you 
can  recognise  him  among  those  people  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  I  could  know  his  face  again,"  she  said ; 
"it  was  blackened  at  the  time." 

"  IIow  was  he  dressed  ?"  inquired  his  "Worship. 

"  I  think  in  a  sailor's  dress — ^like  Dorgan 's,"  she  said 
carelessly. 

"  You  do  not  think  it  was  /then  ?"  said  Dorgan,  smiling. 

"  You  ?"  replied  the  girl,  pausing,  as  if  to  comprehend 


CARD  DKAVTIKO.  61 

bis  question,  "  I  should  sooner  say  that  it  was  bis  own  act 
—or  as  soon." 

"  If  we  haA'e  wronged  you  by  an  unworthy  suspicion," 
said  the  Coroner  to  Dorgan,  "  you  must  blame  the  circum- 
stances and  not  us— for  they  are  more  than  sufficient  to 
warrant  us  in  looking  well  to  the  case.  Are  you  c[uite  cer- 
tain, Miss  M'Loughlen,  that  this  was  not  the  man  whom 
you  witliheld  from  the  deceased  ?" 

"  Certain  that  Dorgan  did  not  murder  my  father !  Am 
I  certain  of  my  existence  ?  I  would  stake  a  thousand 
lives  if  I  had  them,  that  Dorgan  would  not  have  stirred  one 
of  the  gray  hairs  upon  his  head,  in  enmity,  if  it  were  to 
make  him  master  of  the  universe." 

"  i\Iy  own  sterling  girl !"  exclaimed  Dorgan,  delighted 
far  more  by  her  ready  conlidciicc,  than  by  the  safely  which 
it  procured  him — "when  all  are  turned  against  me,  I  have, 
at  least,  one  friend  in  you — for  you  of  all  the  world  have 
ever  known  my  heart." 

"The  coiucideuce  is  still  very  strange,"  said  the  Coroner. 
"Pray,  Miss  M'Loughlen,  was  there  no  mark — no  pecu- 
liarity of  appearances  about  this  sailor,  by  which  you  might 
recognise  him  again  if  you  should  meet  hira  ?" 

"My  memory  had  nearly  deserted  me,"  replied  the 
young  woman.  "  When  he  flung  me  from  him,  I  grasped 
something  which  was  hanging  to  his  coat,  and  brought  it 
away  with  me  in  the  struggle.  It  is  this,"  she  added, 
h  mding  to  the  Coroner  a  piece  of  silver  with  a  blue  ribbon 
altached  to  it. 

"  This,  indeed,  is  a  most  providculial  and  important  cir- 
cumstance," said  the  latter,  "and  will  do  more  to  further 
liie  ends  of  justice,  perhaps,  than  many  hving  evidences." 
The  condemned  wretch,  who,  after  having  his  ears  greeted 
with  the  gladdening  tidings  of  a  reprieve,  is  informed  that 
the  news  was  communicated  under  a  mistake,  and  that  he 
must  still  tread  the  road  to  the  fatal  tree,  may  imagine  what 
Dorgan  felt  when  on  swiftly  lifting  his  hand  to  the  breast 


f  2  CMiJ)  DRAWING. 

of  Ms  coat,  lie  found  that  his  Trafalgar  laedal  was  missing 
■ — and  that  in  fact  the  piece  of  silver  which  the  Coroner 
held  was  no  other  than  it.  He  paused  for  some  time,  in 
litter  ignorance  and  anxiety  as  to  what  his  best  mode  oi 
procedure  would  be  on  the  occasion.  He  saw,  in  one  rapid 
glance,  all  the  fearful  consequences  of  asserting  his  claim  to 
the  medal,  but  he  felt  that  anything  like  an  attempt  at 
concealment,  would  (even  though  it  might  afford  him  time 
to  secure  his  life  against  the  effects  of  an  erroneous  suspi- 
cion,) at  least,  have  the  consequence  of  branding  his  name 
with  ignominy  for  ever  in  his  native  land,  and  Dorgan  pre- 
ferred his  chance  of  hanging  to  that. 

"  I  am  sensible,"  said  he  to  the  Coroner  in  a  lew  voice, 
*'  of  all  the  injury  which  I  may  do  myself  by  the  avowal  I 
am  about  to  make — but  I  trust  that  all  possibilities  may  be 
taken  into  account.  How  that  medal  can  have  come  iuto 
Miss  M'Loughlen's  possession,  I  have  not  the  remotest  idea 
- — but  it  is  mine — the  badge  of  disLinction  which  ail  re- 
ceived who  did  their  duty  on  the  waves  of  Trafalgar." 

"  I  really  hope,"  said  the  Coroner,  after  the  niurmur  of 
astonishment  and  strong  interest  occasioned  by  this  admis- 
sion had  subsided — "  J  hope  you  are  mistaken.  This  af- 
fords too  frightful  a  confirmation  of  the  circumstances  al- 
ready recorded  against  you." 

*'  In  that,"  replied  Dorgan,  "  I  am  unfortunate,  as  many 
a  brave  fellow  was  before  me.  The  medal  is  mine,  how- 
ever. 1  won  it  in  honour,  and  will  not  disown  it  like  a 
coward." 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,"  said  the  Coroner.  "Keeper!" 
he  beckoned  to  the  person  Avho  held  that  office  in  the  neigh- 
bouring bridewell — "  Hand-cuff  your  prisoner." 

"  Piisoner  !"  exclaimed  Pennie,  turning  pale  as  death, 
rushing  between  Dorgan  and  the  bridewell-keeper — "  What 
prisoner?  Why  would  you  hand-cuff  Dorgan,  our  bett 
friend  ?" 

"  You  would  alter  that  opinion,  Miss  M'Loughlcn,"  con- 


CARD  DR.VWINO.  63 

tinned  his  worsliip,  "  if  you  knew  that  this  young  iripja  was 
iieard  last  night  to  uttor  the  most  violent  language  against 
your  father — that  he  was  heard  to  inquire  respecting  i  le 
number  of  people  living  in  his  house — that  he  was  heard  to 
leave  his  bed  during  the  night,  in  the  house  where  ho  sL^it, 
to  which  he  returned  before  morning — -  id  that  nov.',  tT 
crown  and  to  confirm  all,  he  avows  this  medal,  which  )ua 
tore  from  the  murderer's  dress,  to  be  his  own." 

"  An'  if  he  couldn't  swear  to  it,  /  could,"  exclaimed  the 
inn -keeper,  "  for  I  saw  it  wit  my  own  eyes  dauglen  at  1  is 
breast  as  he  was  going  to  bed." 

"  It  is  all  a  dream,  a  wild,  improbable,  impossible  sto.y," 
exclaimed  the  girl  M-ith  passion  :  "  Deny  it,  Dorgan,  and  tell 
them  they  belie  you." 

"  The  circumstances  which  they  have  told  you,  my  dear 
Pennie,"  said  Dorgan,  while  she  hung  on  his  words  as  if  to 
gather  from  their  meaning  the  tidings  of  life  or  death,  "  are 
all  true.  I  did  make  those  inquiries, — I  did  speak  in  fool- 
ish anger  against  our  murdered  friend, — and  that  medal  is 
indeed  mine  ;  but  yet,  Pennie — Pennie  !"  he  reiterated  aj  he 
felt  the  bewildered  girl  recoiling  with  an  expression  of  vague 
and  uncertain  horror  from  his  grasp,  "  I  am  innocent  of  tliis." 

"It  cannot  be,"  said  Pennie;  "both  cannot  be.  Say — 
oh,  Dorgan,  say  once  again  that  this  is  not  your  medal. 
My  brain  will  burst  if  you  do  not  say  it." 

"  I  love  your  happiness  well,  my  poor  girl,"  said  Dorgan, 
looking  on  her  with  much  greater  pity  than  he  felt  for  his 
pwn  fate,  "  and  I  love  my  own  life  and  character  also  ;  but 
I  love  truth  better,  and  the  truth  I  have  told  you  all.  Will 
you  forsake  me  now,  and  leave  me  here  all  alone  ?"  he  added 
mournfully,  as  she  struggled  to  free  herself  from  him. 

"  Don't  hold  my  hands,  Dorgan  !  Drag — pluck  me  from 
him,"  she  continued,  beckoning  rapidly  to  the  clei'gyman, 
and  speaking  in  low,  thick,  and  terrified  acccents.  "  Great 
Heaven  !  what  am  I,  poor  creature,  to  think  or  say  ?  Let 
go  my  hand !" 


64  '  cai:d  drawixg. 

"  I  will  not,  till  you  say  j'ou  fling  me  ofT!  Look  in  my 
face,  Pciinie,  and  then  call  me  j-our  t'afl.cr's  murderer  if  yon 
can.  I  \\\]\  not  be  told  hereafter  that  you  cursed  my  me- 
moiy  and  reviled  my  name.  I  will  hear  you  do  so  now  be- 
fore you  slir  !     Am  I  your  father's  murderer  ?" 

"  Oh,  Dorgan  !"  the  girl  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  cruel  and 
piercing  anguish,  "  what  a  question  you  ask  ?  You  !  ?/ot< 
his  murderer !  Was  the  hand  that  pressed  mine  so  tenderly 
to-day,  the  same  that  sent  the  coid  steel  into  his  brain  ? 
Were  those  arms  that  suppoited  me  so  often  like  a  mother's, 
the  same  that  flung  me  last  night  against  the  hard  floor  ? 
It  is  impossible  !  I  was  praying,  night  and  morning,  for 
many  years,  for  your  safe  return,  and  would  the  Almighty, 
the  kind  and  merciful  Father  of  all,  send  you  home  at  last 
only  to  wet  our  floor  with  my  old  father's  blood  ?  Kis  ways 
are  aw  ful  and  inscrutable,  but  it  is  not  often  that  he  tries 
bis  children  so  deeply.  And  still,  Dorgan,  there  is  the  medal 
that  (he  muiderer  wore,  and  you  say  'tis  yours,  and  you 
can  do  no  more  than  say  you  are  innocent.  And  sure  it  is 
enough  from  you.  Don't  blame  me,  Dorgan,  if  I  wrong 
you  !  I  love  you  but  I  would  be  viler  than  the  dust  under 
your  feet,  if  I  did  not  wish  to  see  justice  done  to  my  dead 
father.  What  am  I  to  think  or  do?  My  soul  within  me, 
that  loves  you,  says  that  you  are  innocent,  and  my  senses 
tell  me  that  you  are  guilty  ;  and  the  end  will  be,  I  think, 
that  between  both  tales  my  heart  will  be  broken  at  last." 

She  fell  back,  with  a  burst  of  wild  grief,  as  she  spoke 
these  words,  into  the  arms  of  a  female  friend,  who,  at  the 
de-ire  of  the  Coroner,  harried  her,  in  a  state  of  insensibility, 
tlirough  the  crowd,  and  into  the  next  apartment. 

Dorgan  continued  to  gaze  after  her  with  an  expression 
of  mingled  admiratit)n,  pity,  and  agony  blended  in  his  look, 
until  her  form  was  completely  concealed  from  him  by  the 
clo-ing  of  the  press  after  her. 

"  if  you  have  any  cx[)lanalion  to  oH'cr  respecting  those 
circamitancos   which   seem  to   implicate   you  so   strongly, 


CAro  I>rA^^'I^:G.  65 

young  man,"  said  the  Coroi:er,  '•  we  are  wiiliiig  to  hear  voii 
now." 

Dorgan  started  at  the  j=uTiiinons,  as  if  all  the  Indignant 
energy  whicli  he  was  capable  uf  assuming,  had  been  silently 
galliering  Mitliiu  his  breast  during  the  last  hour,  and  ncrc 
now  fur  the  lir.^t  time  suddenly  enkindled  at  a  moment. 
'•  Have  I  any  thing  to  say  ?"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  if  your  souls 
were  not  blinded,  would  not  the  case  itself  make  it  unneccs- 
siry  for  me  to  degrade  niy?e!f  even  to  a  denial  of  such  a 
charge.  I  ask  yon,  gentlemen  !"  he  continued,  standing  erect 
and  flinging  his  arms  wide  as  he  looked  round  upon  the  com- 
pany with  that  glowing  eloquence  of  eye,  and  cheek,  and 
actian,  which  the  great  instructress  Nature  can  in  an  in- 
stant infuse  on  an  occasion  of  great  excitement  and  emer- 
gency into  the  constitutions  of  those  to  whom  the  science 
itselt  has  ever  remained  a  mystery ;  "  I  ask  you  is  it 
likely  that  on  the  first  night  of  my  arrival  in  my  native 
land,  after  a  long  and  profitable  absence,  with  every  tiling 
that  was  wanted  to  secure  me  happiness  and  honour  for  the 
remaiudjr  of  my  life,  and  with  tlie  love  of  such  a  creature 
as  that  to  rewarel  me  for  all  my  sutferings  and  slights,  and 
with  the  knowledge  too  that  her  fiither  repented  of  his 
hard  conduct  towards  me,  and  longed  to  call  me  his  friend 
again — 1  ask  you,  is  it  likely  that  I  would  so  causelos?;ly 
dip  my  hands  in  the  blood  of  that  old  man,  to  blast  all  my 
own  hopes  and  prospects  for  ever  ?  Is  it  possible  l  I  am 
a  British  sailor — is  that  the  character  of  ruffian  or  a 
traitor?  That  medal  which  you  hold  was  given  to  me 
as  a  reward  for  discharging  my  duty  well  and  faitlifully — 
is  it  likely  I  would  stain  it  with  the  blood  of  a  secret  mur- 
der ?  I  trod  the  decks  of  the  Victory  for  seven  years,  a 
deck  that  was  never  pressed  by  the  foot  of  a  coward.  I 
laid  my  hands  on  the  white  hairs  of  my  commander  Nel- 
son, when  he  lay  bleeding  on  the  bed  ot  glory — is  it  likely 
1  should  hack  aiid  hew  the  hoary  head  of  a  defenceless 
feliow-creature  ?     I  stood  by  his  side   at  Trafalgar  and 

E 


fS  CARD  DRAWING. 

11  over  slirunk  in  tlic  dayliglit  from  an  enemy's  broaclsido-^ 
i.s  }t,  likely  tliat  I  would  stab  an  old  man  in  the  dark  ?" 

The  indignant  fire  and  conscious  energy  of  manner  with 
which  Doigan  spoke  his  defence,  produced  for  some  mo- 
ments a  pause  of  respectful  silence,  if  not  of  admiration  ; 
and  he  was  suftl-red  for  some  time  to  retain  nndispuied 
possession  of  the  superiority  to  which  he  had  thus  swiftly 
Kited  himself  above  the  minds  of  his  common  auditors. 

"  If  words  could  outweigh  facts,"  the  Coroner  at  length 
said,  "  it  would,  I  believe,  become  our  duty  to  liberate  you 
at  once,  but  these  yet  remain  unchanged  by  any  thing  you 
liave  advanced." 

"What  can  you  do  but  reason  on  them  ?"  said  Dorgan. 
"  If  you  cannot  understand  the  arguments  of  honour,  listen 
to  those  of  prudence.  Do  you  think  it  probable  that  the 
murderer  of  M'Loughlen  would  come  as  I  have  done  to 
brave  investigation  so  openly  ?  Do  you  think  he  would 
have  avowed  that  medal,  which  he  might  have  disowned, 
at  least  until  he  OQuld  have  placed  his  Ufe  boyond  the  power 
of  the  laws  ?" 

"  1  know  not,"  said  the  Coroner,  "  by  what  illusions  he 
might  be  cheated,  or  how  far  he  might  be  tempted  to  trust 
his  own  ingenuity.  It  might  ba  that  the  Alniighty  often, 
for  justice'  sake,  bereaves  the  minds  of  guilty  men  of  that 
conmion  sagacity  with  which  he  has  gifted  most  of  his  crea- 
tures lor  their  preservation,  and  betrayed  them  into  mea- 
sures of  fool-hardy  confidence,  in  which  a  child  iuight  bet- 
ter them.  Such  instances  are  of  frequent  occurrence,  and 
it  yours  be  one  of  them,  all  which  you  have  been  urging 
lends  only  to  show  that  you  have  dreadfully  misappropriated 
(jualitics  which,  properly  directed,  would  have  served  your 
cjuntry  and  your  fellow-creatures." 

"  Ihcy  were  never  spared  in  the  s  rvice  of  either,"  said 
Dorgan,  "and  little  did  i  think  that  thi;  should  be  my  reward." 

lie  was  then  removed,  while  the  Coroner  and  the  Juiy 
pel  formed   their  several  offices — the  former  of  stating  tlie 


CAKD  DRAWING.  G7 

case — and  the  latter  of  cousideriiig  it.     lu  less   than   a 
quarter  of  an  hour  after,  Dorgan  was  again  called. 

"  It  will  be  necessary  for  you,"  said  the  Coroner,  "  to  use 
every  exertion  in  your  power  to  prove  your  innocence  (if  you 
still  persist  in  asserting  it),  and  to  collect  all  the  evidence 
that  is  possible,  for  you  are  implicated  in  the  verdict  of  the 
jury.  ]t  is,  Avilful  murdei'  against  Duke  Dorgan,  and  some 
persons  unknown." 

A  deep  silence  ensued,  during  which  all  eyes  were  bent 
on  the  unfortunate  sailor.  At  the  first  announcement  of  the 
verdict  he  turned  deadly  pale,  his  eye  became  watery,  the 
lid  trembled,  and  a  momentary  shivering  seemed  to  pass 
through  all  his  frame.  But  the  instant  after,  he  had  re- 
sumed his  self-command,  and  drawing  himself  up  to  his 
full  height,  replied  calmly, 

"  I  have  been  considering  this  occurrence  more  deeply 
since  I  withdrew,  and  am  sorry  now  for  the  language 
which  I  was  tempted,  in  the  first  anger  of  my  heart,  to 
use ;  not  that  it  oficnded  the  truth,  but  that  it  argued  a 
very  stubborn  will  tov/ards  the  ordinance  of  heaven.  I 
should  have  recollected  that  you  are  not  to  blame  for  error 
in  this.  If  it  M'ere  not  His  will,  and  did  not  further  some 
wise  and  useful,  though  hidden  design  of  His,  you  could 
not  lay  a  violent  finger  upon  a  hair  of  rny  head.  My  in- 
nocence is  net  the  less  white  in  His  eyes  for  being  wrong- 
fully attainted  in  those  of  men.  I  have  a  strong  confidence 
in  His  mercy,  that  the  real  murderer  will  yet  be  discovered, 
and  that  I  shall  never  die  for  this  deed  : — but  if  that  con- 
fidence should  fail  me,  I  have  at  least  the  satisfaction  of 
kno^\ing  that  we  shall  all,  in  the  end,  be  judged  together 
before  a  bar  where  no  injustice  can  be  committed.  Under 
all  the  ciicumstances,  gentlemen,  I  blame  you  not  for  the 
veidict  you  have  given.  I  acknowledge  the  slreiglh  of 
ajipearances,  and  it  is  therefore  not  iri  censure  of  you,  I 
sa\ — j\lay  all  who  hear  me,  obtain  a  fairer  hearing  at  that 
bar,  than  1  have  met  with  at  yours  !" 


(j3  CARD  DRAWING. 

The  'bot!S'3  was  soon  after  cleared  of  all  bat  the  unhappy 
family  ot"  tiie  deceased  and  their  friends.  Many  of  the 
spectators,  as  they  took  their  way  over  the  fields,  were 
heard  to  express  their  regret  at  such  a  misfortune  happcii- 
rig  to  "  such  a  bright  boy"  as  our  hero,  while  others  sliook 
tiieir  heads  and  declared  (on  the  authority  in  many  instances 
of  severe  personal  experience)  that  "  Duke  had  ever  au' 
always  too  good  a  warrant  for  a  hard  blow,"  and  that  the 
desiiiiy  which  seemed  now  to  hang  over  his  head,  was  no 
other  than  had  been  often  prophesied  for  iiim,  "  many  a 
long  year  before." 

Poor  Duke  in  the  meantime  was  conducted,  heavily 
ironed,  to  th.e  neighbouring  bridewell,  as  a  place  of  tempo- 
rary confinement,  until  an  opportunity  should  arrive  of  trans- 
mitting him  to  the  county  gaol.  Here,  when  the  key  (the 
rusty  grating  of  which  in  tlie  lock  spoke  pretty  well  for  the 
morality  of  the  district)  had  locked  him  in  to  the  company 
of  his  own  lonely  thoughts,  lie  could  not  help  exclaiming, 
as  he  extended  his  manacled  hands,  in  the  language  whicli 
Southerne  has  put  into  the  mouth  of  the  unhappy  Biron, 
and  which  we  have  prefixed  as  an  appropriate  motto  to  his 
history  :  "  Is  this  my  welcome  home  ?" 

The  friends  of  the  deceased,  in  the  n.ieantime,  were  busied 
in  administering  the  consolations  which  their  himible,  though 
sincere  understandings  suggested,  to  his  wretched  daughter. 
S!ie  was  seated  on  the  side  of  the  dimity-curtained  camp 
bed  in  her  own  apartment,  while  the  clergyman,  whose  in- 
fluence alone  appeared  capable  of  restraiuiiig  her,  still  occu- 
pied a  chair  at  her  side  ;  and  sevclal  of  her  male  and  fe- 
male friends  were  placed  in  ditferent  parts  of  the  rocn), 
offering  now  and  then  those  venerable  and  hereditary  ex- 
pressions of  consolation  which  are  usually  put  forward  on 
buch  occasions,  and  which  at  least  have  one  merit,  tliat  uf 
their  perfect  and  unquestionable  veracity — such  as,  "  that 
Peuuie  might, as  well  howl  her  whisht,*  for  if  she  was  to 
*  Iliild  her  peace. 


CAKD  DRA^VING.  69 

ciy  her  eyes  out,  'twonkln't  make  lain  alive  again,'"  and 
various  other  luiileiiiable  facts  of  that  nature,  whiie  tiio 
clergyman  with  a  truer  iiisiglit  into  human  nature,  uivectev] 
her  attention  to  that  beautiful  passage  of  Ecck'si;isticus  in 
which  we  are  told  to  "  weep  but  a  little  for  the  dead,  for 
Le  is  at  vest !" 

"It  is  not  all  for  the  dead,  fether — heaven  forgive  me! 
— that  I  grieve,"  said  the  poor  girl  "  The  Almighty  made 
a  short  work  with  my  father — but  his  mercy  is  swifter  than 
the  murderer's  knife — and  I  trust  in  that,  hoping  that  he 
is  une  of  those  who  are  at  rest.  But  I  have  stiil  a  trouble 
in  my  heart  for  the  Hying.  I  wish,  if  it  was  heayen's  i\  iil, 
that  1  were  waked  beside  my  fother,  before  I  had  lived  to 
Lear  any  one  d'lubt  Dorgan  for  so  revengeful  a  heart.  You, 
you,  Kinchehi!"  she  contii'.ucd,  as  Pryce  entered  the  room, 
with  a  face  of  deep  sorrow  and  commiseration — "  you  were 
not  so  hard !  On  my  knees,  here,  I  ask  your  pardon  (don't 
hiiidcr  me,  father  !)  for  all  tliat  I  ever  said  or  did  against 
you  for  your  over-great  mildness.  You  pardoned  the  old 
man,  and  made  him  no  answer  to  his  auger.  You  would 
not  shed  his  blood  in  return  for  a  hot  word.  The  Lord 
that  sees  into  the  secrets  of  all  men,  will  remember  it  for 
you  another  day  !" 

"  Stand  up !"  Kinchela  cx^kimed,  turning  pale  with 
agitation,  while  he  lifted  her  hastily  from  the  earth, 
and  then  hurried  from  her  side  :  "  "Why  should  you  be 
kneelon'  to  me,  Pennie,  darlcu ;  I  don't  deserve  them 
words." 

"  You  wrong'  yourself,"  said  the  clergyman,  who  remem- 
bered Kiiichela's  remonstrance  to  Dorgan,  which  he  had 
accidentally  overheard  on  the  previous  evening ;  "  I  heard 
you  utter  sentiments  yesterday,  which  would  have  done 
honour  to  mai  y  a  cultivated  mind.  It  would  be  well  for 
the  young  man  that  is  now  l}iiig  in  chains  for  this  murder, 
if  he  had  profited  by  your  example  and  advice.  Jiut,"  he 
continued,  heedless  of  the  real  distress  which  his  praise  (tho 


70  CAI^D  DRAWING. 

resTiJt  of  a  very  natural  feeling  of  aclniiration)  appeaieJ  to 
uccasion  to  the  object  of  it — "  let  not  this  move  you  to 
pride,  for  from  it  all  perdition  had  its  beginning.  If  you 
stand  now,  take  heed  lest  you  fall.  You,  perliaps,  were 
among  those  who  witnessed  Uorgan's  confidence,  before  the 
fatal  train  of  circumstances  was  made  out  against  hiin. 
Let  that  example  place  you  on  your  guard  ;  remember  when 
you  may  be  tempted  to  anoftence,  that  tliereisnohiding-plai.'e 
oil  earth  for  the  guilty,  when  the  xMmighty  chooses  to  mark 
tliem  out  with  his  finger  !  and  that,  as  sure  as  the  rising  of 
the  sun  that  hides  hiin  at  night  in  the  west,  so  sure  is  the 
uncloaking  of  the  deeds  of  the  evil-Morker,  though  he  en- 
close liimself  within  four  walls,  and  asks  '  what  eye  can  see 
him  ?'  while  he  sins  under  the  veil  of  a  denser  than  Egyp- 
tian darkness." 

The  words  of  tlie  clergyman  appeared  to  exercise  a  strong 
i)dluence  on  the  mind  of  the  person  whom  he  addressed  ; 
so  much  so,  that  his  colour  went  and  came  several  times 
while  he  listened.  When  the  reverend  gentleman  had  con- 
cluded, Kinchela  took  a  hasty  farewell  of  the  company,  on 
the  plea  of  being  obliged  to  prepare  for  a  seal-hunt  in  the 
caverns  near  the  Head,  on  the  following  morning.  He  left 
the  inmates  of  the  dwelling  to  make  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments for  the  wake  of  the  .old  man,  while  he  hastened  umler 
the  already  advancing  shades  of  night,  to  his  own  humble 
dwelling  near  the  coast. 

He  hurried  over  the  interjacent  hills,  with  a  speed  Mhich 
was  in  part  occasioned  by  his  anxiety  to  reach  the  cuast  In 
time  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements  for  the  seal-hunt, 
and,  in  a  great  measure  also,  by  his  fear  of  encountering  a 
straggler  from  a  host  of  evil  spirits,  whose  hour  of  domi- 
nion on  the  earth  was  fast  approacliing.  He  raised  with  an 
unsteady  hand  the  latch  of  the  hurdle  door  of  his  cabin, 
and  was  received  by  the  only  member  of  his  family  whom 
he  had  ever  known,  and  whom  he  really  loved  witli  an  af- 
fection greater  and  more  permanent  than  any  which  he  had 


CARD  DRAWING.  71 

ever  felt  towards  a  human  being — his  aged  and  innr.5?? 
mother. 

Tiiere  are,  perhaps,  none  of  the  social  connexions  of  h':- 
man  life  more  touching,  more  interesting,  and  more  per- 
fectly free  from  the  alloy  of  selfish  motive,  than  those  -vvhicTi 
bind  the  hearts  of  mother  and  son,  or  of  father  and  diuighter. 
The  purer  qualities  that  mingle  in  all  other  affections — tl.e 
respect  of  youth  for  age — and  the  tenderness  of  age  for 
youth — the  protecting  and  depending  love  that  binds  the 
sexes — the  warmth  and  softness  of  conjugal  affection,  Mitli- 
out  any  of  its  changes  or  suspicions — the  finer  essences,  in 
short  of  all  the  various  inipulses  by  which  the  spirit  of  hu- 
man beings  are  led  to  mingle  and  flow  together  in  a  league 
of  mutual  confidence  and  support,  are  here  sublimed  and 
unitf^d  in  their  fullest  strength  and  purity.  Neither  are 
such  instances  of  generous  love  less  interesting,  when  thev 
are  found  to  exist  in  classes  Mh  re  there  is  little  of  extern  ! 
refinement  to  grace  and  adorn  them.  The  gold  of  Nature 
is  of  the  same  sterling  quality  in  its  bed  of  rough  ore,  as 
when  it  glitters  on  the  breast  of  beauty  or  of  royalty — it  is 
only  the  figure  that  is  altered.  If  the  frame-work  of  the 
human  character  were  not  composed  of  the  same  materials 
througli  all  classes,  what  hope  could  we  have  that  the  rich, 
the  elegant,  and  the  high-born  Avould  honour  with  their 
sympathy  the  pictures  of  humble  sorrow  and  affection,  which 
these  Tales  are  intended  to  present  ?  Less — even  less,  than 
we  venture  to  entertain  while  we  are  employed  in  sketch- 
ing them. 

The  affection  of  Kicchela  for  his  aged  mother  was  one  of 
the  features  in  his  character  which  had  procured  him  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  regard  in  the  neighbourhood  ;  such  filial 
affection  being  looked  on  with  a  peculiar  esteem  in  Ireland 
' — a  country  where  (to  use  a  familiar  expression  of  its  own 
pciisantry)  "  a  man's  child  is  always  his  child,"  for  the  in- 
terests of  &  family  are  seldom  divided,  even  by  marriage. 
The  old  widow  was  pious  and  honest;  and  though  rj_)ce 


72  CARD  DRAVriNG. 

di<l  not  possess  eitlier  of  those  qualities  in  any  bniliarit  de^ 
gree  himself,  he  respected  them  in  his  parent,  and  was  care- 
ful to  preserve  from  her  knowledge  any  part  of  his  conduct 
by  \A-hich  they  might  be  offended.  Without  feeling  in  his 
ou'n  heart  any  extraordinary  respect  for  the  precepts  of  his 
Church,  he  was  frequently  known  to  smuggle  a  keg  of  to- 
bacco or  Hollands,  in  order  to  enable  his  mother  to  pay  her 
Christmas  or  Easter  dues  ;  and  would  have  stolen  a  sheep 
for  the  suet,  rather  than  she  should  suffjr  any  conscientious 
qualms  about  the  want  of  the  usual  present  of  candles  for 
the  altar,  never  daring  to  supply  her  with  either,  until  he 
taxed  his  ingenuity  to  furnish  a  perfectly  satisfactory  story, 
which  would  set  all  her  doubts  or  scruples  at  rest. 

The  good  woman  was  now  seated  by  their  fire  of  turf 
and  pieces  of  wreck,  engaged  in  keeping  warm  the  simple 
fare,  which  Avas  intended  for  her  son's  dinner.  A  small 
deal  table  was  placed  near  the  hearth,  and  close  to  it  a 
rush-bottomed  chair  ready  set  for  his  use.  Over  a  few  red 
coals  which  were  broken  small,  the  iron  tongs,  placed 
lengthwise,  and  opened  a  little,  was  made  to  perform  the 
part  of  a  gridiron  towards  a  beautiful  Beltard  turbot,  which 
a  gourmand  would  have  judged  worthy  of  a  prouder  table, 
and  a  more  elaborate  process  of  cookery. 

"  A  hundred  thousand  welcomes,  child  of  my  heart," 
said  the  old  woman,  speaking  in  her  native  language  ;  "  I 
thought  the  very  darkness  would  not  bring  you  home  to 
me.     Sit  down." 

KiuehoJa  took  his  seat  at  the  table  in  silence,  while  his 
mother  placed  before  him  the  food  wdiich  she  had  prepared. 
Siie  perceived,  however,  that  he  did  not  eat  with  his  usual 
despatch  and  satisfaction. 

"  There  is  some  secret  hanging  on  your  mind,  my  flur 
heart,"  said  she,  "  you  do  not  eat.  You  did  not  sleep  at 
home  these  two  nights  j  and  when  you  came  in  this  nv>rn- 
ing,  you  looked  paler  than  paper,  and  trembled  like  a  straw 
upon  the  water." 


CARD  DRAWING.  73 

"I  didn't  sleep  abroad  either,"  replied  Kinchela,  "  an* 
sure  what  else  would  I  be  only  pale  after  that,  an'  I  being 
getten  the  canoes  ready  all  night,  let  alone  what  I  heerd 
this  mornen,  moreover." 

"  Wiiat  Avas  that,  darling  ?" 

"  Old  M'Loughleu  to  be  murthered  last  night  in  his  own 
house,  over." 

The  old  woman  nttered  an  exclamation  of  horror — « 
"  Woe  and  sorrow  !"  she  exclaimed  :  "•  when  will  they  be 
weary  of  drawing  the  blood  of  the  gray-headed  ?  Your 
own  father,  Fryce,  died  by  the  cold  steel.  It  is  true  for 
the  priest  what  he  said  from  the  altar  last  Sunday,  that 
Ireland  was  more  cursed  by  the  passions  of  her  own  chil- 
dren than  ever  she  was  by  Dane  or  Sassenagh.  The  judg- 
ment of  the  Jews  will  tall  on  us  at  last.  We  are  hunted 
through  our  country  and  from  our  countiy  in  punishment 
of  our  sins." 

"  They  say  Dorgan — Duke  Dorgan,  that  lived  near  the 
sally-coop,  eastwards,  did  the  deed.  I  saw  'em  taken  of 
him  to  bridewell,  on  the  head  of  it." 

"There!  there,  Pryce !"  said  his  mother,  "  Rtmera- 
ber  my  words  when  you  were  refused  by  him,  and  when 
you  swore  to  me  that  you  would  never  forgive  him  the 
longest  day  you'd  live." 

"  I  did  not  swear  it!"  said  Kinchela,  starting,  as  if  in 
alarm. 

"  You  did — and  sorry  enough  you  were  for  it  afterward. 
You  might  have  been  in  Dorgan's  place,  if  it  were  not  for 
the  mercy  of  Heaven." 

"  Let  us  have  no  more  talk  about  it  now,  whatever," 
said  Pryce  ;  "  I'll  want  to  take  a  little  lest  before  goeu  to 
the  sale-himt ;  an'  I  must  have  the  canoe  near  the  caverns 
before  daybreak.  Do  you  get  the  wattles  an'  the  char- 
coal ready,  mother,  an'  lay  'em  there,  a  nigh  the  settle-bed, 
igen  I  get  up." 

Pryce  retii'ed  to  his  bed-room,  but  seemed  to  be  haunted 


74  CARD  DRAWING. 

even  in  the  darkness  and  solitude  of  this  retreat  by  a  cer- 
tain uneasy  train  of  feeling  which  appeared  to  have  been 
clinging  to  him  throughout  the  day.  He  had  truly  stated 
to  his  mother  that  he  passed  the  former  night  without 
sleep ;  but  this  circumstance,  instead  of  making  him  sink 
the  more  easily  into  slumber,  had  only  the  effect  of  weaken- 
ing his  nerves,  and  filling  his  brain  with  all  the  frantic 
images  of  sleep,  without  any  of  its  calmness  or  comfort. 
His  mother,  disturbed  by  the  restless  moans  which  pro- 
ceeded from  his  chamber,  laid  down  the  bag  of  charcoal 
which  she  was  preparing,  and  taking  a  rush-light,  made 
fast  in  the  fissure  of  a  twig,  in  her  hand,  entered  the  room. 
Her  son  was  at  that  moment  labouring  under  a  hideous 
dream.  His  head  hung  down  over  the  bed-side,  his  arms 
wei'e  extended,  his  forehead  and  hair  damp  with  sweat. 
He  saw,  in  fancy,  the  corpse  of  the  old  man  as  it  lay 
stretched  on  the  table  at  M'Louglilen's,  and  seemed  to  be 
oppressed  with  the  conviction  that  some  person  had  seized 
and  was  taxing  liim  with  the  deed. 

"  Let  go  my  throat  !"  he  muttered  hoarsely.  "  It  was 
not  I — 'Twas  Dorgau — Dorgau  did  it,  and  not  I ! — He  lies 
— the  old  man  never  named  mc — lie  could  not — for  my 
face  was  blackened.     Let  go  my  throat!" 

"The  Almighty  prot(  ct '  and  bless  my  son!"  said  the 
woman,  as  she  stirred  liiin,  and  made  him  sjjring  up  terri- 
fied in  his  bed,  "  what  words  are  these  ?" 

Kinchela  remained  for  some  time  sitting  erect,  his  eyes 
wild  and  staring,  and  his  mouth  agape  with  terror.  Con- 
sciousness at  length  stole  upon  him,  and  covering  his  face 
with  his  hands,  he  leaned  forward  for  some  moments  iu 
silence. 

"  What  was  the  matter,  child  ?"  the  old  woman  at  length 
asked,  as  she  laid  her  hand  atfectionately  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

"Nothen! — nothcn — only  dreamen  greatly  I  was — 
Aren't  you  gone  to  bed  yet,  mother  ?" 


CARD  DRA-Vl'INa.  75 

"  No,  darling ;  'tisn't  far  in  the  night.  Those  were 
dreadful  words  you  spoke,  Pryce?" 

"  Did  I  talk  out  o'  my  sleep  ?" 

"  You  did ;  you  spoke  as  if  somebody  was  charging  yoa 
with  a  great  crime,  and  you  denied  it,  and  bid  them  to  let 
go  your  throat." 

Pryce  paused  a  moment.  Well,  mother,"  said  he  at 
length,  "  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  so  aisy  to  take  a  start 
out  o'  yon.     Sure  'twas  funnen  I  was  all  that  while." 

"There  was  little  mirth  then  in  your  voice  or  in  your 
actions,"  replied  his  mother,  still  speaking  (as  she  always 
used)  in  her  vernacular  tongue,  "  I  thought  the  hag  of  the 
night  had  been  throttling  you." 

"  1  tell  you  'twas  a  joke,  agcn.  Sure  Ifelt  you  comen 
into  the  room.  I  was  as  broad  awake  as  you  are  now. 
Go  to  bed,  mother,  an'  hear  to  me !  Don't  say  anythen  o' 
this  in  tlie  mornen,  for  'twouldn't  look  well  to  be  joken  on 
such  a  business." 

The  aged  widow  left  the  room  and  retired  to  her  own 
settle-bed,  after  otFering  up  her  usual  portion  of  nightly  in- 
vocations to  the  throne  of  mercy  for  all  blessings  upon  all 
men  ;  while  her  son  remained  wrapped  in  a  mood  of  in- 
tense reflection,  sitting  on  his  bed-side,  and  using  every 
exertion  in  his  power  to  compose  his  troubled  spirit. 

"For  years  an'  years,"  said  he,  "I  was  looken  to  that 
hour,  an'  I  thought  it  would  be  worth  all  I  ever  suffered  or 
ever  could  sutler  to  live  to  see  it;  an'  now  it  has  come,  an'  is 
this  the  happiness  it  was  to  bring  me  ?  The  pains  of  hunger 
and  thirst,  the  cold  of  the  winter  night,  the  shame  and  dis- 
gi'ace  that  I  endured,  wor  no  more  than  child's  play  to  the 
sight  of  him  as  he  lay  gaspen  and  groanen  on  the  ground 
before  me.     Murder  is  a  fearful  thing  for  all !" 

Suddenly,  while  he  paused  and  remained  fixed  in  horror 
at  the  bed-side,  a  sensation  of  strong  fear — one  of  those 
powerful  nervous  afiections  by  which  persons  of  deep  though 
silent  passions,  and  ill-regulated  minds,  are  liable  to  be  as- 


76  CAPiD  DRAWING. 

sailed  on  any  startling  occasion — rushed  to  his  heart  and 
caused  the  blood  to  recoil  upon  it  in  such  quantity,  as  to 
obstruct  its  action,  and  endanger,  to  his  own  thought,  the 
very  structure  of  tiie  organ.  Its  pulses  ceased  for  a  moment 
and  then  resumed  their  play,  with  a  violence  which  filled  him 
with  terror.  He  heard  distinctly  every  bound  which  the  irri- 
tated muscle  matle  within  his  bosom,  and  a  swift  and  unac- 
countable suspicion  darted  through  his  mind,  that  this  was 
but  the  signal  of  a  dissolution  of  the  entire  frame;  that  the 
hour  of  death  which  no  accident  of  illness  or  of  peril  had  ever 
brought  before  him,  was  now  arrived ;  and  that  he  was 
presently  to  undergo  that  awful  and  mysterious  change,  at 
the  prospect  of  which,  even  the  impenetrable  heart  of  the 
sophist  becomes  illumined  by  a  horrid  light,  and  the  souls 
of  the  saints  themselves  are  not  always  tree  from  anxiety; 
that  change  at  the  presence  of  which  the  light  laugh  or  jest 
of  petty  malice,  which  was  deemed  so  venial  in  the  dis- 
course of  the  preceding  day,  seems  to  swell  and  darken  into 
a  crime  sufficiently  enormous  to  blot  out  the  light  of  para- 
dise from  our  eyes  for  ever.  The  wretched  man  believed 
that  he  was  now  about  to  be  hurried,  fresh  from  the  very 
act  of  his  offending,  before  the  judgment-scat,  the  terrors 
of  which  he  had  often  heard  depicted,  but  which  had  never 
affected  his  mind  with  any  other  sensation  than  that  of 
weariness  and  impatience,  until  now  tliat  he  almost  beheld 
it  within  the  scope  of  his  own  vision.  He  lay  back  in  au 
agony  of  horror  on  his  bed — the  world  and  his  worldly  in- 
terests and  connexions  seemed  to  crumble  into  dust  before 
his  eyes — he  was  sensible  of  nothing  but  the  eternal  ruin 
that  hung  over  him.  He  clasped  liis  hands,  while  a  thick 
perspiration  spread  over  all  his  frame,  and  prayed  loudly 
for  mere}',  promising  in  his  anguish  that  if  he  were  granted 
but  a  little  time,  all  should  be  disclosed,  and  justice  fulfilled 
at  any  cost.  While  he  continued  praying,  the  beating  of 
his  heart  subsided,  a  gradual  relief  crept  over  his  spirits,  which 
were  at  length  lulled  fast  in  a  iound  and  drcamluLo  slumber. 


CARD  DRAWING.  77 

Tlie  first  gray  light  of  the  whiter  daybreak  was  stream- 
ing through  the  single  pane  of  glass  whicli  was  set  iu  the 
mud  wall  of  his  apartment,  when  the  voice  of  an  acquain- 
tance roused  him  frem  his  short  sleep.  For  a  few  moments 
after  he  woke,  he  felt  as  if  nothing  had  taken  place  out  of 
the  usual  course  of  events,  and  proceeded  to  mtike  the  ne- 
cessary preparations  for  the  seal-hunt. 

"  We've  everything  ready,"  said  the  man,  "  the  canoes 
are  at  the  Poul  a  Dhiol,*  an'  v/e're  goeu  to  have  some  fun 
besides  with  Lewy  Madigan,  the  pubHcan  o'  the  Bee-hive, 
that's  comen  wit  iiz — an' — whisht !  Is  there  any  body 
there  wit  you?" 

"No." 

"  Bekays  I  met  Dorgan  now  an'  a  strong  party,  goen  to 
Ennis,  where  the  assizes  are  held  this  week.  They  say  he 
won't  call  any  witness,  an'  wants  to  be  tried  as  soon  as  they 
can." 

Pryce  dropped  the  net  which  he  had  taken  up,  and  re- 
mained silent  for  a  moment.  The  conscionsness  of  his 
situation  came  rushing  at  once  upon  his  mind,  and  he  re- 
membered with  terror  the  vow  of  disclosure  which  he  had 
made  in  the  night.  He  now  stood,  however,  in  very  difr 
ferent  circumstances ;  the  cheerful  daylight  was  about  him, 
he  felt  secure  in  the  possession  of  excellent  healih,  and  he 
half  resolved  in  his  own  mind  to  postpone  the  fuliilraent  of 
his  promise  for  some  time  yet. 

_  Deffire  he  left  the  house,  he  took  a  small  iron  pot  filled 
with  potatoes,  washed  and  ready  for  boiling,  Avhich  he  pro- 
ceeded to  hang  on  the  fire.  "  Yes — that's  what  I'll  do," 
he  said  within  himself — "  what  fear  is  there  o'  me  now  ? 
Sure  it's  time  enough  to  think  abont  it  yet." 

A  singnlar  accident  made  him  alter  this  opinion.  At  the 
moment  that  he  s])oke,  a  large  stone,  nnfixed  by  tlie  hand 
of  Time  from  its  position  in  the  roof  of  the  wide  chimney, 

'  The  Demon's  Hole,  near  Loup  Head. 


73  CARD  DRA^YING. 

fell  within  an  inch  of  his  forehead,  and  dashed  the  vessel  to 
"pieces  between  liis  hands.  If  it  had  only  held  its  place  one 
second  longer,  his  brains  would  have  infuUiblj  suffrrcd  the 
same  f ite.  He  started  anhast  with -the  conviction  of  a 
present  and  powerful  Providence.  What  security  had  he 
now  ? — what  was  the  use  of  the  ingenious  scheme  which  he 
had  contrived  to  pi-eserve  his  life  and  escape  all  suspicion, 
when  it  was  no  more  within  his  own  power  than  if  he  were 
already  at  the  tree  ? 

As  they  proceeded  together  toward  that  part  of  the  cliff 
at  which  their  canoes  (a  light  boat,  as  ancient  as  the  days 
of  011am  Fodhla,  constructed  of  horse  skin,  which  is  used 
by  the  fishermen  on  those  coasts)  were  moored,  Kiuchcla 
ventured  to  hint  a  sensation  of  his  remorse  to  the  rough 
fellow  who  accompanied  him.  The  latter  happened  to  be 
one  of  those  cold  ruffians,  whose  crimes  are  the  otispr  ng  of 
interest  and  not  of  passion,  and  who  was  alike  incapable  of 
wanton  cruelty  or  of  merciful  forbearance.  The  suggestion 
filled  hini  with  rage. 

"  That  I  may  be  happy,  Kinchehi,"  said  he,  "  but  you're 
just  what  I  always  took  you  for.  You  wor  the  cruellest 
savage  among  us  at  tlie  time — an'  now  I'll  lay  my  life  you'll 
be  the  fusht  to  split." 

"  Well,  howl  your  tongue.  Fid,  an'  we'll  say  nothen 
more  about  it.  Only  1  wisiit  1  could  avoid  the  double 
murd  r,  any  way." 

"  What,  murther  is  it,  m:in  ?  E'  what  nonsins  you 
talk  !  Sure  you  know  yourself,  if  Dijrgan  was  there  he'd 
do  the  very  same — an'  'twas  only  to  get  the  start  of  liiiu 
you  did." 

Kinchela  did  not  pursue  the  subject  farther,  altlio'v^h 
the  reasoning  of  his  companion  did  not  fully  satisfy  his 
luind  that  iJorgan  deserved  hanging  tor  being  liable  to 
temptation.  Tiiey  had  at  this  nio.ueut  reached  the  brink 
of  a  long  line  ot  rocky  cliffs  of  consiciirable  height,  the 
bases  of  which  were  in  many  placoj  hollowed  out  tc  a  con- 


CARD  DRAWING.  79 

sidcrable  distance  inland.  They  continued  their  course 
over  a  turf  mountain  on  which  the  signal  tOAver  was  placcJ 
iu  a  most  commanding  situation.  Its  surface  was  covered 
with  a  short  scanty  moss,  that  afforded  pasturage  to  a  num- 
ber of  sheep  ;  while,  at  another  season,  it  might  have  fur- 
nished the  whole  country  with  mushrooms.  The  brokea 
jags  and  edges  of  the  great  cliffs  at  the  head  soon  began 
to  make  themselves  visible.  The  first  on  which  they  ar- 
rived presented  a  broken  descent  some  hundred  feet  high, 
at  the  base  of  which  lay  a  sloping  ledge  of  rock,  against 
whose  jutting  and  uneven  sides  the  bright  green  waves  of 
the  Atlantic  lashed  themselves  (on  more  boisterous  mornings 
than  the  present,)  as  if  chafing  at  the  stern  and  fixed  re- 
buke which  this  gigantic  natural  boundary  opposes  to  their 
fury ;  sometimes  rushing  fiercely  up  its  sides,  and  leaving 
their  white  and  foaming  waters  in  the  narrow  crevices  of 
crag,  from  which  they  are  seen  descending  again  in  a  thou- 
sand milky  streams.  They  tried  to  descend  here,  but  found 
it  dangerous ;  that  part  of  the  recess  which,  seen  from  a 
Httle  distance,  appeared  to  be  sufficiently  broken  and  slant- 
ing, proving,  when  they  came  near  it,  much  more  closely 
allied  to  the  perpendicular.  A  httle  farther  toward  tho 
lIo:ul.  linwever,  they  chanced  upon  the  Poul  a  Dhiol,  or 
Devil's  Hole. 

it  was  u  recess  of  gigantic  size,  formed  in  the  solid  cliff 
by  the  beating  of  the  waves,  if  not  originally  so  moulded, 
or  left  as  a  relic  of  chaotic  matter,  unsubdued  to  the  form 
and  uses  to  which  the  great  mass  of  the  material,  of  which 
this  beautiful  globe  of  earth  and  water  is  coaipouuded,  has 
been  reducL'd.  This  recess  ran  at  first  into  the  land,  and 
then  some  hundred  yards  to  the  left,  as  it  was  viewed  from 
the  water. 

Perceiving  an  easy  mode  of  descent,  Kinchela  and  his 
friends  made  good  their  entry  into  the  infernal  palace,  and 
were  stopped  aboi:t  half  way  down  by  an  enormous  rock, 
which  lay  across  the  gleu,  and  seemed  to  allow  no  hope  of 


bO  CARD  DRAWING. 

proceeding  farther.  Acquainted,  liowever,  -vvitli  tlie  facili- 
ties of  the  descent,  they  entered  a  small  apcrtnre  left  un- 
derneath. The  spectacle  which  the  Ponl  a  Dhiol  presented 
when  viewed  from  beneath  tliis  arcli-way  was  grand  and 
striking,  as  well  as  singular  in  the  highest  degree.  Through 
the  opening,  as  they  looked  upward,  they  could  see  the 
cliff  heads  piled  together  to  the  height  of  some  hundred 
feet,  leaving  between  the  uneven  masses  of  rock  the  wild 
and  craggy  space  through  which  they  had  descended. 
Below  them,  at  a  depth  of  many  fathoms,  the  ocean  waves 
heaved  sluggishly  against  the  huge  rocks,  Avhich  were  almost 
polished  and  rounded  by  the  untiring  dash  of  the  waters. 
Passing  from  beneath  the  rock,  the  fishermen  suffered  them- 
selves to  drop  with  little  difficulty  to  the  next  ledge,  and 
running  from  one  enormous  crag  to  another  down  to  the 
water's  edge,  began  to  make  the  necessary  preparations 
for  their  morning's  sport,  without  stopping  to  indulge  in 
any  of  the  sensations  of  deep  and  trembling  awe,  with 
which  the  magnificence  and  grandeur  of  the  scene,  into  the 
centre  of  which  tiiey  had  intruded,  must  have  impressed 
the  mind  of  a  stranger.  They  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  vast 
natural  hall,  a  few  yards  in  width,  and  walled  in  on  either 
side  to  the  height  of  many  hundred  feet ;  the.  solid  cliff  ou 
the  landward  side  appearing  directly  to  overhang  their 
heads.  Opposite,  in  a  dark  recess  of  the  cliff,  and  placed 
on  a  ledge  of  rock  at  some  height  from  the  water,  was  a 
large  crag,  approaching  in  form  to  a  lobster'tj  claw,  based 
on  the  obtuse  end,  which,  from  the  singularity  of  its  ap- 
pearance, contributed  much  to  the  bizzare  and  fantastic 
grandeur  of  the  scene.  Looking  toward  tlie  upening  if 
the  recess,  they  beheld  the  projections  of  three  stupendous 
and  overhanging  clifTs,  within  the  compass  of  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  ;  the  farthest  oft"  being  the  land's  end  or  actual  Head, 
ou  which  the  light-house  was  still  flinging  its  fading  beama 
against  the  morning  splendour.  Close  to  the  opening  was 
a  lofty  island,   perpendicular  at   all  sides,  and  circular  iu 


CARD  DRAWING.  81 

shape,  of  dimensions  so  circumscribed,  that  it  seemed  to 
rise  from  the  waters  at  the  entrance  like  the  reinainiiig 
column  of  a  porch.  Its  heathy  and  tabular  summit  was 
covered  with  sea-gulls,  which  kept  wheeling  and  screaming 
perpetually  among  the  crags  and  precipices.  Close  to  the 
Head  was  a  large  insular  crag,  which  rose  even  higher 
than  the  lofty  cliff,  from  which  it  seemed  at  one  time  (ir 
another  to  have  been  separated,  ami  formed  a  noble  termi- 
nation to  this  magnificent  coui)  d'oeil.  The  prevailing 
impression  which  the  scene,  contemjjlated  from  the  place 
where  the  fishermen  stood,  was  calculated  to  leave  on  au 
unaccustomed  miiKl,  was  that  of  fear,  and  an  anxious  and 
almost  tumultuous  excitation  of  the  spirits.  There  was  an 
oppressive  sense  of  confinement  and  insecurity,  which  re- 
pressed the  struggling  admiration  that  a  spectacle  of  even 
inferior  power  or  sublimity  might  have  awakened. 

Several  canoes  were  ah'cady  made  fast  near  the  rocks, 
and  a  number  of  fishermen  were  seen  in  various  clefts  uf 
the  sullen  crag,  preparing  their  poles  or  wattles  with  bags 
of  charcoal  affixed  to  them,  t'Uiclung  the  use  of  which  they 
furnish  a  rather  wliimsical  account  of  the  animal's  nature. 
They  say 'that  the  seal  is  very  certain  to  lay  hold  of  the 
person  who  first  appioaches  him,  and  to  retain  his  hold, 
until  he  hears  the  bone  crack  under  his  teeth.  In  order  to 
deceive  him  in  this  matter,  the  fishermen  extend  a  long 
pole  with  S,  bag  of  charcoal  attached,  which  bag  he  ciuiiches 
with  a  remarkably  good  will,  while  his  enemies  muster 
around  and  destroy  him  with  staves.  For  the  truth  of 
this  story  Ave  will  not  vouch,  as  it  certainly  is  not  very 
complimentary  to  the  sagacity  of  the  animal. 

'i'he  groups  of  moving  figures  in  the  crags — the  tossing 
of  the  light  canoes  beneath — the  dremy  waste  of  the  now 
peaceful  ocean  spreading  in  the  distance — and  the  uncer- 
tain morning  light  which  at  once  shadowed  and  illumined 
the  whole  picture  in  the  manner  best  adapted  to  aid  the 
grandeur  of  effect  which  it  was  calculated  to  produce, 
4* 


82  CARD  DRAWING. 

miglit  possibly  have  arrested,  for  a  considerable  time,  the 
attention  of  jiersons  more  capable  of  appreciating  its  sub- 
limity than  Kinchela  and  his  fiiend,  who  were  too  familiar 
with  its  beauties,  and  too  deficient  in  refinement  of  taste  to 
pause  for  a  moment  in  their  contemplation. 

After  they  had  descended,  they  were  met  by  a  man, 
who  ajipeared  to  have  been  expecting  their  arrival. 

"  I  declare,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  accosting  them  in  the 
manner  of  a  condescending  superior — "  I  have  been  pre- 
fixed upon  this  rock  the  livelong  morn,  expecting  your 
descension.     That's  a  commendable  canoe  you  have,  Fed." 

"  Oyeh,  wisha,  middlen." 

"  Dear  knows,  it  is.  They  say  the  sales  are  congregated 
in  a  very  spontaneous  manner  under  the  cliffs,  at  Bally- 
bunnion  this  mornen." 

"  0  enough,  for  sport,  I'll  be  bound,  Mr.  Madigan,"  said 
Fed,  Avho  rtcognlsed  at  first  sight,  in  the  speaker,  the  ac- 
complished inu-keeper  of  tiie  i>ee-hive,  a  man  revered  in 
the  neighbourhood  for  his  knowledge  of  English,  and 
laughed  at  now  and  then  for  his  cowardice.  "  You'll  go 
with  us,  I  suppose,  sir  ?" 

"  I  profess  to  you,  my  dear,  I  am  onaisy  in  myself  on 
the  prospect  of  it.  I  should  not  admire  much  to  be  substi- 
tuted onder  one  o'  them  caverns,  wlien  the  tide  would  be 
on  the  alert  with  me." 

"  0,  no  fear  in  life,  sir.  The  wathur  is  like  gl*ass  to-day. 
Come  along,  Kincliula.  We'll  just  take  one  turn  at  the  sales, 
an'  then  we'll  go  westwards  a  piece,  an'  get  a  feow  bags  o' 
the  barnocks." 

They  put  off,  and  the  whole  party  were  presently  glid- 
ing under  the  clilfs  at  the  Head,  on  their  way  to  the  ca- 
verns, each  canoe  being  furnished  with  a  lighted  torch,  to 
enable  them,  with  greater  facility,  to  explore  the  mazes  of 
the  gloomy  subterreue,  into  whicii  they  were  about  to  pene- 
trate. As  the  fiist  boats  entered,  it  seemed  to  those  who 
were  following  at  some  distance,  and  not  yet  near  enough 


cai;d  drawing.  83 

to  distiTi2;n!ph  the  month  of  the  cavern,  as  if  then-  com]):i- 
nions  had  discovered,  and  were  prusecutiiig  the  way  to  the 
regions  of  those  subaqueous  sprites,  wlio  are  supposed  bv 
tlie  peasantry  to  people  tlie  vast  palaces  of  the  deep,  and 
wear  out  their  immortality  in  a  fairy  land  more  gorgeous 
than  that  to  which  the  muse  of  Southey  introduced  the  pro- 
tector of  his  heroine.  In  a  short  time  our  acquaintances 
found  themselves  in  the  centre  of  one  of  those  lofty  n;itural 
halls ;  the  roof,  irregularly  arched  above,  sometimes  at  the 
height  of  three,  sometimes  twenty  feet,  and  glittering  indis- 
tinctly in  the  light  of  the  num  -rons  torches  which  were  also 
reflected  from  the  face  of  the  broken  waters,  with  a  splen- 
dour which  presented  a  brilliant  con'rast  to  t!;e  crease  gloom 
of  the  interior  of  the  cavern,  and  which,  of  course,  would 
have  reminded  the  reader  of  Eembrandt. 

"  It  is  a  speculation  of  uncommon  perplexity,"  said  Mr. 
Madigaii,  "those  exuberant  rocks  overhead;  I  protest  to 
you,  I  thiuk  they  appear  on  the  verge  of  suspense,  as  if 
they'd  extenninate  us  all  into  a  watery  grave." 

The  canoes  proceeded  farther  up  the  cave,  until  the 
dashing  of  waters,  ^\ithin  a  few  yards  of  them,  intimated 
their  proximity  to  the  ledges  of  rock  on  which  the  ob- 
jects of  their  search  were  accustomed  to  secrete  themselves 
at  particular  seasons,  and  where  they  frequently  suffer  their 
pursuers  to  approach  them,  without  making  any  attempt 
at  escape  or  lesistance  until  violence  had  been  actually  of- 
fered. While  they  pursued  their  game  in  the  interior, 
Madigan  petitioned  to  be  left  on  one  of  the  outer  ledges, 
unwilling  to  trust  his  English  into  the  perils  of  the  hunt ; 
while  Kinchela  and  his  companion,  perceiving  that  they 
might  be  spared  from  the  party,  left  the  cavern  for  the  pur- 
pose of  gathering  barnocks  (a  shell  fish  which  is  here  found 
of  a  prodigious  ^ize,)  from  the  sides  of  a  neighbouring  cliff. 

The  cliff"  wliich  they  selected  for  this  purpose  Mas  the 
Bellauu  Rock ;  which  presents,  from  the  plainness  and 
smootliuess  of  its  perpendicular  side,  a  striking  contrast  to 


lin 


84  CARD  DRAWING. 

the  rough  and  broken  barrier,  which  opposes  its  irregular 
strength  to  the  ocean  on  eitlier  side.  It  is  one  of  tlie 
loftiest  in  the  range,  and  as  it  atfords  no  path  or  means  of 
descent  in  any  part,  the  fishermen  are  obliged  to  lower 
themselves  by  ropes  to  its  centre,  or  to  any  portion  of  it 
on  which  the  harvest  of  barnocks  liappens  to  be  most  plen- 
tiful. Kinchela  and  his  friends  made  profit  of  the  retiring 
tide,  however,  from  their  canoes,  and  then  proceeded  by 
land  to  Claunsevane,  or  the  Natural  Bridge,  apiece  of  scen- 
ery with  which  we  will  conclude  our  rather  copious  sketch 
of  the  coast,  and  the  omission  of  which  would  leave  that 
sketch  very  incomplete. 

They  passed  along  a  precipitous  range  of  cliffs,  until 
they  were  made  aware  of  the  proximity  of  the  place  by 
the  thundering  of  the  waters  on  their  left,  although  the 
day  was  calm  rather  than  otherwise.  They  passed  the 
Puffing  Hole  of  Ross  (one  of  those  natural  jets  d'eau^ 
which  abound  on  the  coast,  and  which  are  formed  by  a 
narrow  opening,  inland,  over  one  of  the  caverns,  into  which 
the  ocean  waves  rush  with  such  fury  as  to  force  their  way 
through  the  neck,  and  ascend  to  a  prodigious  height  in  the 
air  above).  In  a  short  time  thc-y  found  themselves  on  the 
borders  of  the  precipitous  inlet  of  Claunsevane.  It  was  a 
small  bay  with  a  narrow  opening  toward  the  Atlantic,  and 
walled  round  at  all  sides  by  a  rugged  ci-ag  which  rose  to  a 
prodigious  height.  Across  an  arm  of  this  inlet  was  a  nar- 
row range  of  crag,  connecting  the  cliffs  at  either  side,  hav- 
ing the  bay  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  a  deep  basin, 
into  which  the  waters  flowed  through  three  n  itural  arches 
furmed  in  the  solid  crag.  A  very  narrow  pathway  was 
made  on  the  summit  of  this  singular  natural  bridge,  several 
hundred  feet  above  the  arches,  the  fall  at  cither  side,  but 
sspccially  that  toward  the  ocean,  being  almost  quite  perpen- 
dicular. In  the  base  of  the  cliff  inside  the  basin  were  a 
number  of  small  caves  ;  and  in  another  corner  of  the  inlet 
a  tall  column  of  rock,  not  more  than  a  yard,  perhaps,  in 


CARD  DRAWING.  85 

diiMTieter,  rose  from  the  waves  nearly  to  the  height  of  the 
cliff,  at  a  little  distance  from  which  it  stood.  This  pillar, 
which  is  called  the  Stick,  gives  an  air  of  uncommon  wild- 
noss  to  the  scene. 

Kinchtia  haviug,  with  the  assistance  of  his  friend,  suc- 
ceeded in  securing  near  the  edge  of  the  cliff  a  kind  of  rude 
windlass,  for  the  purpose  of  enabling  them  to  increase  tlieir 
store  of  barnocks,  made  fast  their  rope  in  the  earth,  and 
prepared  to  descend. 

This  was  a  feat  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  per- 
form, almost  daily,  from  his  bojliood,  and  he  never  had, 
for  one  moment,  felt  a  greater  degree  of  repugnance  or  aj^- 
prehension  than  he  would  liave  experienced  in  walking  <  n 
the  firm  soil.  But  he  was  now  an  altered  man,  and  ue 
feh,  as  he  put  his  foot  iu  the  loop  which  was  made  in  the 
end  of  the  rope,  and  grasping  it  with  both  hands,  launched 
himself  from  the  brow  of  the  "  pi  ruicious  height,"  a  sen- 
sation of  insecurity,  and  a  sinking  of  ihe  heart,  such  as  he 
never  before  had  felt  in  any  situation  whatever.  He  even 
wished  that  he  had  taken  the  precaution  (though  it  would 
iiave  had  but  a  cowardly  air)  to  secure  himself  to  the  rope 
by  tying  it  to  his  waist ;  but  it  was  now  too  late  for  rLfii'c- 
tion,  and  he  had  only  to  trust  his  customary  chances  for  a 
safe  return  to  the  firm  eiirth. 

While  he  was  occupied  in  filling  his  net  with  the  bar- 
nocks which  he  struck  from  the  rock,  lie  suddenly  heard  a 
crackling  noise  above  his  head,  and  looking  up,  saw  tliat 
one  of  the  divisions  or  strands  of  the  rope  i;ad  given  way, 
leaving  the  whole  weight  of  his  peison  on  the  faith  of  a, 
single  cord,  not  more  than  half  an  inch  in  diameter,  lie 
was  now  suspended  in  mid- air,  more  than  a  hundred  feet 
from  the  summit,  and  saw,  at  a  fearful  distance  beneath, 
the  points  of  the  rugged  crag,  around  which  the  waters 
Were  now  slumbering  in  almost  a  moveless  calm.  He 
feared  to  stir — to  speak — to  give  any  indication  of  his  dan- 
ger, lest  it  should  only  have  ihe  effect  of  making  the  latter 


8C  CARD  DRAWING. 

more  imminent.  His  limbs  trembled,  and  became  bathed 
in  perspiration,  while  he  cast  his  eyes  on  that  part  of  the 
rope  where  the  fissure  had  taken  place.  He  could  almost, 
and  only  almost,  reach  it  with  his  hand.  Again  all  the 
horrors  of  the  preceding  night  and  morning  were  renewed, 
and  a  stupifying  terror  seized  upon  his  brain.  He  ven- 
tured, at  length,  to  give  the  signal,  at  which  his  companion 
was  to  draw  him  to  the  summit.  While  he  was  doing  so, 
and  while  he  yet  hung  suspended  between  the  dreadful 
alternative  of  life  or  death,  some  of  the  canoes  passed  under 
him  on  their  way  from  the  caverns  to  their  homes,  and  the 
fishermen,  in  their  own  aboriginal  language,  began  to  hoot 
and  jibe  him  as  they  passed,  making  various  allusions  to 
his  position  in  the  air,  and  drawing  analogies  concerning 
tlie  rope,  the  humour  of  which  poor  Kinchela  was  in  no 
condition  to  appreciate.  A  cold  shivering  passed  through 
his  limbs,  when  he  saw  the  feeble  portion  of  it  approacli 
the  rugged  edge  of  the  cliff;  and  here,  as  if  for  the  pur- 
pose of  iiicreasing  his  agony,  Fed  stopped  turniug  the 
windlass,  and  approached  the  brink,  with  marks  of  alarm 
and  astonishment. 

"  E',  Piycc,  man,"  said  he,  "  do  you  see  the  danger 
you're  in  all  this  while  ?  Sure  there's  the  rope  med  a'most 
two  halves  of,  above  you.  Sure  if  that  broke  you'd  be 
ruined,  man." 

"Wisha,  then.  Fed,  what  news  you  tell!  Is  that  the 
reason  you.stop  haulen  of  it,  in  dread  I'd  have  any  chance 
at  all.     Murther  alive,  see  this." 

"  I'll  pull  you  up  if  you  like,  man,  but  what  harm  was 
there  in  me  tellen  you  your  danger  ?" 

"  All  o'  one  'tisn't  too  well  1  knew  it.  Pull  away,  an' 
soHuher  to  you." 

Fed  resumed  his  post  at  the  windlass,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments after,  Kinchela  grasped  the  edge  of  the  cliff;  he 
succeeded  in  scrambling  up,  after  which,  without  speaking 
a  word  to  his  couipauion,  he  flung  down  the  net  of  bar. 


CARD  DRAFTING.  37 

nodes,  and  fled,  as  if  he  were  hunted  by  the  fiends,  in  the 
direction  of  his  mother's  house  ;  while  his  companion,  after 
gazing  after  lii:;i  and  at  the  barnocks  for  a  few  moments, 
packed  up  their  implements,  and  took  to  his  heels,  under 
the  full  conviction  that  the  j^huca  was  coming  up  the  cliff 
to  them. 

"  The  Almighty  is  impatient,  I  believe,"  said  Pryce, 
when  he  had  reached  his  own  door,  "  he  will  wait  no 
longer.  There  is  no  use  in  my  hoping  to  escape — I  must 
do  it  at  last ;  an'  I  oughtn't  to  be  dragged  and  frightened 
into  it  this  way,  so  that  there'll  be  no  thanks  to  rae  in  the 
end." 

Notwithstanding  this  wholesome  reflection,  the  weakness 
of  the  man's  nature  was  such,  that  many  days  elspsed  be- 
fore he  could  prevail  on  himself  to  put  in  act  any  portion 
of  the  measures  necessary  for  the  accomplishment  of  his 
resolution.  Even  after  he  had  learned  from  a  neighbour 
that  Dorgan's  sentence  had  already  passed,  and  that  the 
day  was  appointed  on  which  he  was  to  be  executed,  in  the 
neighbourhood  where  the  offence  had  taken  place,  he  sus- 
tained many  terrific  struggles  with  his  conscience,  b»jfore 
he  could  bring  himself  to  form  a  full  and  unreserved  inten- 
tion of  making  the  disclosure,  whatever  it  might  be,  which 
oppressed  his  soul.  He  felt  his  fears,  at  one  time,  muster 
on  him  in  such  excess  as  to  overpower,  for  the  moment, 
every  other  consideration  besides  that  of  his  immediate 
personal  safety  ;  and  at  another,  the  recollection  of  the 
perils  he  had  undergone,  and  the  uncertain  tenure  of  his 
own  life,  which  they  mauifested  to  him,  renewed  his  re- 
more  and  his  terror  of  another  more  poweiful  tribunal  than 
that  which  liere  awaited  him.  He  recollected,  too,  amid 
his  merely  selfish  reflections,  the  destitution  which  must 
attend  the  lonely  old  age  of  his  unhappy  parent,  when  he 
siitu'd  be  no  longer  able  to  minister  to  her  wants,  as  he 
had  done  from  his  youth  upwards  :  but  again  he  recollected 
that  a  superior  duty  called  him   away,  and  he  resolved  to 


bH  CARD  DRAWING. 

coiuiVi't  !ier  fortunes  lo  the  care  of  the  Beiii;;-  who  sum. 
riioiied  him  from  her  side  by  warnings  so  singiiUir  and  im- 
pressive— warnings,  however  fearful  tliey  might  seem, 
wliich  it  Avould  not,  perhaps,  require  much  enthusiasm  to 
attribute  to  the  mercy  shown  on  behalf  of  tliis  single  virtue, 
which  looked  so  lonely  and  IjeautiCul  amid  the  darkness  and 
the  multiplicity  of  his  crimes. 

Dorgan  in  the  meantime  was  left  to  meditate,  in  the 
solitude  of  a  condemned  cell,  on  the  singular  fatality  of  the 
circumstances  wliich  had  conducted  him  to  it.  The  cere- 
mony of  a  trial  has  been  so  often  and  so  well  delineated, 
and  the  facts  that  were  proved  on  that  of  Dorgan  were  so 
mei'ely  a  repetition  of  those  which  have  ah-eady  been  laid 
before  the  reader  in  the  account  of  the  coroner's  inquest, 
that  we  have  esteemed  it  unnecessary  to  go  at  length  into 
the  subject.  Whatever  amusement  the  reader  might  find 
in  the  blunders  of  Irish  witnesses,  or  the  solecisms  of  an 
Irish  court  of  justice — these  afforded  but  little  subject  of 
merriment  to  our  poor  hero,  ^\ho,  in  spite  of  the  confident 
anticipations  which  he  had  expressed  to  the  coroner,  be- 
held himself  placed  within  the  peril  of  a  disgraceful  death 
at  the  very  moment  when  he  expected  to  enter  on  the 
enjoyment  of  a  life  of  domestic  comfort  and  quiet  happi- 
ness— happiness  Avhicli  was  so  justly  earned  by  a  yonth  of 
exertion  and  pi-ovidence.  Neither  had  he  tlie  comfort  of 
leav'ng  on  earth  a  single  heart  that  was  impressed  with  the 
conviction  of  his  innocence.  Unjustly  as  he  had  been 
treated  by  the  world,  his  was  not  one  of  those  natures 
which  could  take  refuge  in  misanthropy  from  the  agony  of 
disappointed  feelings  ;  and  he  longed — anxiously  longed — 
for  some  opportunity  of  clearing  himself  at  least  in  the  opi- 
nion of  one  individnal.  But  the  instant  after,  he  reproached 
himself  for  this  wish,  as  selfish  and  unworthy.  "No!" 
said  he,  ''  her  knowledge  of  my  innocence,  obtained  only 
through  my  assertion,  would  not  save  my  life,  and  could 
only  have  the  effect  of  torturing  lier  with  the  consciousness 


CAIiD  DEAWIXG.  89 

of  having  assisted  in  the  destroying  it.  Let  her  never  know- 
it.  What  good  would  it  do  me  to  be  remembered  by  her 
as  other  than  she  now  thinks  me  ?  Would  it  restore  lifo 
to  my  buried  bones,  or  enable  me  to  enjoy  ^Ahat  I  have 
lost  ?  It  would  not ;  therefore  I  will  leave  it  to  Provi- 
dence to  keep  the  question  of  my  guilt  or  innocence  re- 
vealed or  hidden  as  he  pleases  ;  doing  only  that  which  in 
justice  anjl  duty  I  am  bound  to  do,  to  remove  the  false 
impression  from  the  minds  of  my  fellow-countrymen." 

While  he  thus  revolved  thc83  things  in  his  mind,  the  door 
of  the  cell  was  opened,  and  the  sheriif,  attended  by  two 
officers  and  a  clergyman,  entered.  In  spite  of  all  the  ef- 
forts which  he  had  made  to  establish  his  resolution,  so  as 
to  support  him  firmly  through  this  fatal  moment,  Dorgau 
felt  a  cold  thrill  shooting  through  all  his  limbs,  when  it  ac- 
tually arrived,  and  it  was  not  without  considerable  difnculty 
that  he  could  so  far  command  his  heart  as  to  understand 
what  the  officer  was  saying  to  him.  However  perfectly  we 
may,  to  our  own  thought,  bend  up  our  minds  to  the  endu- 
rance of  any  dreadful  extremity,  and  however  satisfied  wo 
may  be  to  abandon  all  expectation  of  avoidance  or  escape — it 
is  certain  that,  until  the  very  instant  of  its  accomplishment 
has  arrived,  an  unacknowledged,  unconscious  hope  will  yet 
continue  lingering  about  the  heart,  the  discomfiture  of  which 
(as  it  gives  place  at  length  to  black  and  absolute  despair) 
is  more  terrific  than  the  very  separation  of  our  two-fold  ex- 
istence itself.  Our  unfortunate  hero  leaned  heaviiy  on  the 
clergyman  while  the  death-warrant  was  read  over.  The 
hand-cuflfs  were  then  struck  off,  as  if  for  the  puiposc  of 
mocking  him  with  a  freedom  which  he  never  could  enjoy; 
and  a  man,  covered  from  head  to  foot  in  a  thick  blanket, 
at  sight  of  whom,  Dorgau  shuddered  to  the  very  centre  of 
his  bciing,  approached  him  with  a  halter,  on  which  the  aw- 
ful noose  was  already  formed,  in  his  hand.  He  lifted  it  for 
the  purpose,  as  is  usual,  of  sutieriug  Dorgan  to  carry  it  to 


90  CARD  DRAWIXG. 

the  place  of  execution ;  but  the  Latter  recoiled  with  horror 
at  tliis  apparently  uuueedful  cruelty. 

"It  must  be  doue,"  said  the  sheriff;  "  put  it  over  his 
head." 

"  Remember  heaven,"  said  the  clergyman — "  will  yoii 
refuse  to  imitate  its  Monarch  ?  He  bore  his  cross  to  Cal- 
vary." 

Nothing  affects  the  heart  more  deeply,  at  a  moment  of 
this  kind,  than  a  sentiment  of  religion.  The  tears  suddenly 
rushed  into  Dorgan's  eyes,  and  bowing  his  head  in  silence, 
he  suffei-ed  the  ignominious  badge  to  be  laid  on  his  neck, 
without  farthei'  question. 

"  Why  is  the  prisoner  not  dressed  in  the  goal-clothes  ?" 
said  the  sheriff, 

"  'i'here  was  no  order  given,  sir,"  said  the  goaler,  an'  I'm 
afeerd  'twould  be  late  wit  uz,  now." 

"  No  matter,"  replied  the  sheriff,  "it  will  answer  as  it 
is.  Let  him  die  in  the  clothes  iu  which  the  deed  was 
done." 

Uorgan  instantly  raised  his  head  ftxm  its  drooping  posi- 
tion, and  looking  calmly  and  fixedly  on  the  otlicer  of  the 
law,  said  :  "  Let  me  die,  sir,  in  the  clothes  which  I  w^ore 
while  engaged  in  the  service  of  my  country.  Her  unilbrui 
will  never  be  disgraced  by  a  death  that  is  not  merited,  al- 
though it  be  shameful." 

"  You  peraist  then  in  declaring  your  innocence  ?"  asked 
the  otlicer. 

"  I  did  not  intend,  sir,  to  have  repeated  what  I  already 
said  ;  and  that  last  word  escaped  me  unawares  ;  but  since 
you  put  the  que.~tion,  justice  compels  me  to  give  you  aa 
answer.  I  Leie  sulemnly  declare  in  the  presence  of  these 
Eicn,  my  accus  rs  and  my  executioners,  as  well  as  Ju  the 
presence  of  that  Gal  before  whose  throne  I  must  shortly  stand, 
that  I  am  now  about  to  die  the  death  of  a  murdered  man. 
Ves — ye  are  about  lo  i\^)  a  murder — and  it  is  more  for  vour 
sukes  than  mine,  that  I   bid  you  take  the  warning.     The 


CARD  DRAWING.  21 

day  will  come,  sir,  wlien  you  will  remember  my  words  with 
sorrow.  I  pray  Heaven  tliat  you  may  have  no  heavier  feel- 
ing to  strive  against.  You,  father,  were  one  of  the  wit- 
nesses against  me ;  when  the  day  arrives,  as  it  may  before 
long,  that  shall  make  my  innocence  appear — all  I  ask,  sir, 
is — that  you  will  pause,  and  weigh  the  matter  well  with 
yourself  before  you  throw  in  your  hard  word  against  a  poor 
fellow-creature's  life.  Kemeniber  these  words.  I  hope  that 
my  fate  will  teach  the  gentlemen  that  have  the  lives  of  the 
poor  in  their  hands  to  proceed  very  cautiously  in  future,  be- 
fore they  take  circumstances  for  certainty.  1  am  ready  to 
attend  you,  Mr.  Sheriff." 

Two  cars  (in  English,  carts)  were  placed  outside  the  gaol, 
in  one  of  which  Dorgan  and  the  clergyman  were  placed, 
while  the  other  Avas  occupied  by  the  blanketed  personage 
above-mentioned,  who  immediately  secreted  himself,  amid 
the  shouts  and  groans  of  the  populace,  under  the  straw  which 
was  placed  in  it  for  that  purpose.  As  the  cars  were  about 
to  move  forward,  a  wonicin  passed  through  the  guard,  and 
grasped  the  rail  of  that  which  contained  Doigan,  vvlio  was 
deeply  absorbed  at  the  moment,  in  the  discourse  which  the 
clergyman  directed  to  him.  One  of  the  soldiers  perceived, 
and  striking  her  on  the  shoulder  with  the  butt  end  of  hig 
musket,  bid  her  go  back. 

"  One  word,  sodger  darlen — let  me  only  spake  a  woi'd  to 
the  boy,  an' I'll  be  off.     Mr.  Dorgan!    Don't  you  hear,  sir?' 

Dorgan  lilted  up  his  eyes,  and  started  back  with  sudden 
tiiiTor,  as  h  ■>  beheld  the  Card-drawer,  his  evil  prophet,  looking 
into  his  eyes,  with  her  finger  raised  in  the  actiun  of  beckoning 
or  iuviiing  his  attention.  The  clergyman  also  recognised 
her  at  the  same  instant. 

"Wretched  impostor!"  he  exclaimed,  "how  dared  yoa 
force  your  way  hither?  Is  it  not  enough  that  you  mislead 
fools  in  their  health,  but  you  must  trouble  the  hope  uf  the 
dying,  as  you  do  noAV?" 

''No  trouble  in  life,  your  reverence,  only  just  to  sjmfce 


92  CAM)  DRAWINS. 

one  woi'd  to  the  boy.     Mr.  Dorgan,  there's  one  gay  me  a 
message  to  yon,  sir — to  say — whisper  hether " 

"  Kemove  that  -n-oman,"  said  the  sheriff. 

"  I  say,  you  mizzuz  !"  said  a  soldier,  elbowing  her  from 
the  car. 

"  Only  one  word,  sodger,  dear  darlen — " 

"  Remove  her,  I  say! — " 

"  One  ^\  ord — 0  dailen  sodger,  don't  kill  me  with  the  plnn- 
derpiish — j\lr,  ]  )uke,  keep  np  your  spcrrits — for  there's  one 
that  'ill " 

Tiie  remainder  of  the  speech  (if  it  were  uttered)  was  un- 
heard by  the  ears  for  which  it  was  intended,  as  the  speaker 
was  forced  back  into  the  centre  of  the  noisy  press,  and  the 
party  proceeded  on  their  route. 

The  day  was  as  dreary  as  the  occasion.  The  remark,  so 
popular  in  Ireland,  that  there  never  is  an  assize  week  with- 
out rain,  was  in  this  instance  justilied  by  a  thick  mizzle  which 
made  the  air  dull  and  gloomy,  and  covered  the  trees  and 
herbage  with  a  hoar  and  dimly  glittering  moisture.  There 
was  no  wind,  and  the  distant  surface  of  the  river,  as  they 
passed  in  the  direction  of  its  mouth,  was  covered  by  a 
Tiiantle  of  gray  and  eddying  mist,  through  which  the  shadow 
of  a  dark  and  flagging  sail,  or  the  naked  masts  of  an  anchor- 
ing vessel  were  at  intervals  visible.  The  crowd  which  had 
accompanied  the  party  to  the  outskirts  of  the  cit}-,  dropped 
oiF  gradually  as  they  proceeded  into  the  country,  until  they 
were  left  to  prosecute  their  dreary  jouiney  with  no  other 
attendants  than  the  lew  whose  interest  in  the  prisoner's  fate 
had  induced  them  to  come  from  the  coast  for  the  purpose  of 
witnessing  his  trial. 

It  was  late  n  the  afternoon  before  they  arrived  at  Car- 
rigaholt.  As  the  cars  were  descending  an  eminence  in  the 
neighbourhood,  Dorgan  cast  his  eyes  towards  the  west,  and 
beheld;  on  the  veiy  spot  where  he  had  parted  ■^^  ith  his  lovo 
before  his  departure  to  join  his  ship,  and  where  the  swecti.  st 
hours  of  Llieir  .^irst  and  declared  affection  had  been  passed,  tlux 


CARD  DRAWING.  ,  93 

dreadful  engine  erected,  on  wliich  he  was  within  another 
hour  to  lose  a  life  which  but  a  few  days  before,  he  would 
not  have  given  for  that  of  a  purpled  monarch.  A  great 
multitude  of  people  encompassed  the  spot,  among  whom 
might  be  discerned  the  light  blue  dresses  of  the  fish-jolters 
from  the  coast ;  the  rough  and  half-saiior-like  persons  of 
the  fishermen ;  the  great-coated  and  comfortably  appointed 
farmers  from  the  interior  ;  nearly  all  of  those  ^^  hom  he  be- 
held having  been  at  one  time  or  another  the  partakers  of 
some  hours  of  youthful  enjoyment  with  the  victim  of  the 
sacrilice,  iu  his  days  of  careless  boyhood.  Seated  on  a  greeu 
bank,  at  two  or  tliree  hundred  paces  distant  from  the  gallows, 
were  a  group  of  persons,  comprising  a  soldier  and  two  sailors, 
the  same  who  were  witnesses  to  Dorgan's  first  lauding, 
during  their  watch  at  the  signal  tower  on  the  evening  of 
his  arrival. 

"  I  say,  you  land-lobster  there,"  said  tlie  hero  of  the 
draught-board,  "  will  you  douce  your  sky-tackle  there,  and 
let  us  have  a  peep  at  the  fun.  A  messmate  !  I'd  rather 
than  a  gallooner  it  had  been  a  red-jacket  instead  of  a  true 
blue.     You  have  the  wind  o'  me  there,  Will." 

"  I  say.  Jack  !"  the  soldier  replied,  turning  his  head 
round,  '"you  mind  the  Papist  that  made  the  bull  that  night." 

"Ay-ay—" 

"  There  he's  over ;  speaking  to  that  elderly  lady  with  the 
pipe  in  her  mouth." 

"  Eh  ?  Why,  unreeve  my  clue  lines,  Will,  if  that  an't 
the  very  lubber  I  met  in  the  larboard  field  yonder,  this 
morning,  abaft  the  tower.  I'H  tell  you  now  how  it  was— 
I  saw  his  pennant  flying  oa  the  lee,  and  took  him  for  our 
cook  at  the  tower  ;  so  I  made  sail  —  he  stood  off — I  gava 
chase — he  tacked  and  stood  across  the  meadow — I  squared 
my  yard,  out  studding-sails — sung  out  'steady' — poured  in 
a  broadside,  and  ran  alongside  to  see  my  mistake  just  as 
he  weathered  the  gap  iu  the  hedge.  '  My  eye,'  says  I, 
*  here's  a  go — I  took  you  for  our  cook.'    '  Ko,  sii','  says  he, 


di  .  CARD  DRAWING. 

'I'm  for  the  hanging  match,  can  you  tow  me  on  the  way?' 
'  To  be  sure  I  can,'  says  I — '  'bout  ship  and  sheer  oft' yon- 
der ;  when  you  come  abaft  the  water-mill,  belay  sheets 
and  tacks,  and  stand  off  close  to  the  wind's  eye  for  the 
potato  field — then  bear  away  for  the  bog — sing  out 
a-head,  and  if  they  won't  open  the  gate,  'bout  ship  agjiin  ; 
loose  your  main  sheet — make  for  the  white  cottiige — gibe 
— and  come  out  upon  the  highway — crowd  all  your  can- 
vass, and  run  right  a-head  for  the  gallows." 

"  Haw  !  haw  !  And  what  did  the  Hiiish  Roman 
Papist  say  to  you  ?" 

"  He  stood  with  his  mouth  open,  gaping  like  an  empty 
scuttle-butt.  The  fellow  never  heard  English  in  his  life 
before.  Oy  say,  you  Papist  Paddy,  you,  come  here 
and  make  us  a  bull,  and  you  shall  have  a  glass  o'  grog 
when  I'm  purser," 

The  person  whom  he  addressed  was  standing  at  a  few 
paces  distant,  occupied  with  far  other  and  deeper  thoughts 
than  those  which  suggested  the  holiday  converi»3  of  the  la>t 
speakers.  His  eye  was  fixed  on  the  place  of  execution, 
while  he  received  some  message  from  an  old  and  miserably 
attired  woman,  which  seemed  to  fill  him  with  anxiety  and 
disappointment. 

He  turned  on  the  sailor  a  ghastly  and  fearful  eye,  but 
made  no  answer  to  his  words. 

"  Never  look  so  cloudy  about  it,  messmate,"  the  latter 
continued  iu  an  unmoved  tone — "  Cheer  up,  nutn,  the  rope 
is  not  twisted  for  your  neck  yet.  Jack's  alive  ;  who's  for  a 
row  ?  Never  say  die  while  there's  a  shot  in  the  locker. 
\Vhup !" 

"  It  would  become  you,  av  you're  a  Christian  yourself, 
to  conduct  yourself  wit'  more  feeling  and  more  decency  an' 
the  breath  goen  to  be  taken  out  of  a  poor  fellow-craair," 
said  the  woman. 

"  He's  some  cousin  of  yours,  mistress,  by  the  kindness 
you  sliow  him." 


CARD  DUAWING.  95 

'*  Aych,  my  dear,"  the  Card-drawer  retorted,  plncldng 
the  man's  blue  jacket  significantly — "  'tisn't  my  unyforni 
he  wears." 

A  shout  of  laughter  burst  from  the  sailor's  companions 
at  this  sally,  as  the  old  woman  hastened  off,  audibly  hum- 
ming over  a  stanza  of  the  popular  ballad, 

"An'  as  for  sailors  1  don't  admire  them — 

1  wouldn't  live  as  a  .sailor's  bride, 
For  in  their  coorten  they're  still  discoorsen 

Of  things  consarnen  the  ocean  wide." 

Wliile  the  countryman,  who  had  shown  such  marks  of  In- 
tense interest  in  the  scene,  disappeared  amid  the  crowd  that 
surrounded  the  place  of  execution. 

The  car  had  already  hahed  at  the  foot  of  the  fatal  tree, 
and  Dorgan,  his  limbs  stiff  from  the  maintenance  of  the 
same  position  during  the  long  journey,  was  ordered  tc 
stand  erect.  He  opened  his  eyes  heavily,  and  gazed  around 
on  the  multitude  of  faces  that  were  turned  towards  his — 
he  looked  on  the  iields  and  meadows  in  which  his  childhood 
had  been  passed,  and  felt  his  heart  almost  break  with  the 
long  farewell  which  it  sent  forth  in  a  sigh,  that 

•'  —  seemed  to  shatter  all  his  bulk. 
And  end  his  being." 

The  awful  preparations  were  already  completed — Dorgan's 
hands  were  pinioned — the  dreadful  knot  affixed — and  the 
whole  scene,  the  hills  and  cottages  and  buzzing  muhitude, 
swam  and  reeled  before  his  eyes — when  the  ghost-like  per- 
son in  the  blanket  approached,  and  uncovering  from  be- 
neath his  woollen  envelope  a  bony  and  muscular  hand,  ex« 
tended  it  to  our  hero,  sa>ing  at  the  same  time, 

"  Therom-a-lauv  a  yra  lawn*  Forgive  an'  forget. — 
Sorrow  better  boy  ever  I  see  die  in  his  shoes.  Say  you 
won't  be  baunten  me  for  this — it's  only  my  juty." 

*  Give  me  the  hand,  my  white  darling. 


90  CARD  DRAWING. 

Dorgan,  half-stupificd,  gave  him  his  hand  in  token  of  his 
forgiveness,  and  at  the  same  instant  felt  the  death-cap  pulled 
over  his  eyes,  while  the  command  to  "  draw  away  the  car" 
sounded  in  his  ears. 

"  Hold  !"  cried  the  clergyman  to  the  owner  of  the  vehi- 
cle, who  with  much  simplicity  had  taken  the  collar  and  was 
about  to  lead  the  horse  away,  not  considering  that  by  so 
doing  he  would  in  fact  be  the  executioner  of  the  convict. 
"Let  the  man  who  is  engaged  for  the  purpose  be  the  shed- 
der  of  the  forfeited  blood,"  continued  his  reverence.  "  Do 
not  move  the  horse." 

"  A'  then  your  reverince  might  just  let  matters  go  on  as 
they  were,"  said  the  finisher  of  the  law.  "  It's  all  one  to 
the  boy  who  does  that  job  for  him." 

The  pause  saved  Do)-gan's  life.  At  the  moment  when 
the  hangman  was  about  to  lay  his  fingers  on  the  collar,  the 
irowd  near  him  separated  with  much  noise  and  confusion, 
and  a  man  darting  through  the  passage  and  through  the 
file  of  soldiers,  seized  the  rude  bridle,  and  striking  the  exe- 
cutioner so  as  to  make  him  reel  and  stagger  a  ihw  paces, 
cried  out  in  a  hoarse  and  loud  voice,  "  Come  down,  Mr. 
Dorgan,  come  down  off  o'  the  car.  Let  him  go,  Mr.  Sheriff, 
dear,  for  the  man  is  here  that  did  the  deed." 

The  sheriff,  in  the  midst  of  the  cosfusiou  that  prevailed, 
Imagining  that  a  rescue  was  about  to  be  attempted,  had 
cocked  a  pistol  and  placed  it  to  the  head  of  his  prisoner. 
He  now  suffered  the  muzzle  to  f;ill,  and  gazed  in  astonish- 
ment on  Kinchela,  who  stood,  pale,  trembling,  and  listless, 
at  the  horse's  head.  The  truth  flashed  on  the  clergyman's 
mind,  as  he  recognised  in  Pryce  the  same  individual  Avho 
sat  with  Dorgan  in  the  parlour  of  the  Bee-hive  on  the  even- 
ing before  the  murder.  He  suggested  to  the  sherifi"  the  pro- 
priety of  inquiry. 

"  It  may  be  a  cheat,"  said  the  officer,  "  and  if  so,  how 
dreadfully  cruel  will  be  the  disappointment  to  the  prisoner 
After  this  suspense." 


CARD  DRAWING.  97 

*'  Let  the  mail  be  summoned  hither  and  questioned  at 
once,"  said  the  priest. 

Kinchtla  was  called  accordingly,  but  he  was  unable,  for 
a  long  time,  to  answer,  or  even  to  comprehend  the  ques- 
tions that  were  put  to  him.  The  excess  of  his  terror  had 
deprived  him  for  the  moment  of  all  cousciousness  :  he  saw 
a  thousand  faces  flitting  about  him,  and  heard  a  thousand 
voices  at  his  ear,  but  was  totally  incapable  of  appreciating 
their  meaning  or  their  wishes.  The  sight  of  Dorgan,  still 
pinioned  and  blindfolded  in  the  car,  at  length  startled  him 
from  his  stupor ;  he  suddenly  extended  his  arms,  and  re- 
peated with  great  violence,  "  Come  down,  again,  I  tell  you, 
Dorgan !  Mr.  Sheriff,  let  go  Mr.  Dorgan,  for  he's  inno- 
cent.    I  am  the  man  that  done  it." 

"  That  did  what  ?" 

"  That  murdered  old  M'Loughlen  !"  Kincheia  exclaimed, 
with  a  gesture  of  deep  horror,  "  an'  here  I'm  come  to 
answer  for  it  now." 

"If  the  man  should  be  a  maniac,"  said  the  sheriff. 

"  Oh,  I  wisht  to  the  heavens  I  was !"  Kincheia  ex- 
claimed. "  No,  no  ;  I  was  mad  when  1  done  it,  it's  in  my 
sober  senses  I  come  to  declare  it.  Let  Mr.  Dorgan  loose, 
an'  tie  me  up  in  his  place,  an'  heavens  bless  you  an'  don't 
keep  me  long  in  pain,  for  I  hear  hangen  is  a  fearful  death." 

After  some  consultation,  the  sheriff  agreed  to  take  upon 
him  all  the  responsibiUty  of  delay  ;  the  unhappy  Dorgan 
was  unbound  and  removed  from  the  car.  Pie  looked 
drearily  around  him,  and  leaned  on  the  clergyman  for  sup- 
port, while  the  change  in  his  fortunes  was  communicated 
to  him  by  the  sheriff. 

"  In  the  middle  o'  the  night  that  same  time,"  said  Kin- 
chela,  in  answer  to  the  inquiries  which  were  made  respect- 
ing the  manner  of  the  occurrence,  "  I  made  my  way  into 
Dorgan's  room,  an'  I  took  his  clothes  that  wer  lyen  on  the 
chair,  an'  dressed  myself  in  'em,  an'  in  them  I  did  the 
murder,     i  don't  know  what  made  me  tell  it,  but  my  con- 

Q 


98  CARD  DRAWIN<J. 

science  was  killen  o'  me  intirely.  Mr.  Dorgan,  I  have  only 
one  word  to  say  to  you  before  we  part.  My  poor  old 
mother,  that — "  the  word  stuck  hi  his  throat,  and  he  could 
only  look  his  meaning  through  his  tears. 

"  Never  fear  for  her,"  said  Dorgan,  "  she  shall  be  pro- 
vided for.  Oh,  Pryce,  I  little  thought — Well,  there's  no 
use  in  talking  about  it  now," 

The  sheriff  now  gave  orders  to  take  Kinchela  into  cus- 
tody, detaining  Dorgan  at  the  same  time  under  arrest, 
until  his  sentence  should  be  rescinded  according  to  the 
usual  form.     The  crowd  separated  in  great  confusion. 

It  now  became  a  point  of  consideration  with  her  friends 
to  devise  the  most  easy  method  of  breaking  the  joyous  in- 
telligence of  her  lover's  innocence  and  liberal  ion  to  Pennie 
M'Loughlen.  Although  the  mode  of  her  life  and  educa- 
tion exempted  her  in  general  from  the  danger  which  might 
be  apprehended  in  such  cases  to  a  person  of  more  refined 
habits  or  a  more  nervous  constitution  ;  yet  it  was  conjec- 
tured, with  much  truth  and  sagacity,  that  the  repetition  of 
so  many  dreadful  shocks  Avithin  so  short  a  space  of  time 
could  not  fail  to  be  injurious  in  its  operation  on  a  mind 
not  altogether  destitute  of  sensibility.  If  the  reader  have 
curiosity  or  good  feeling  enough 'to  induce  him  to  entertain 
an  interest  in  the  contrivances  of  their  rustic  wits  on  this 
occasion,  we  will  venture  to  prolong  the  narrative  to  its 
real  consummation,  the  reconciliation  of  the  lovers. 

Pennie  had  removed  immediately  after  the  day  on  which 
her  father's  funeral  took  place  to  the  house  of  a  relative— 
a  "  dale'mg  woman,"  in  the  village  of  Carrigaholt.  A  few 
days  after  Dorgan's  foinsal  pardon  had  been  obtained,  his 
fair  accuser  being  yet  in  ignorance  of  all  the  events  which 
succeeded  the  trial :  she  was  seated  in  a  small  clean  room, 
called  a  parlour,  inside  the  shop,  in  which  her  relative  ap- 
peared, bustling  about  in  all  the  conscious  satisfaction  and 
importance  of  a  thriving  huxter,  among  her  closely-packed 
assortmentof  haberdashery,  reaping-hooks,  penknives,  no- 


CAPD  DEA-nrxG.  99 

tatloii-books,  reading  marle-ea^iys^  snuff  aud  tobacco,  flaX' 
seed,  prayer-books,  halters,  waistcoat-patterns,  plates, 
dishes  of  the  most  flaming  colours,  with  a  small  stock  of 
grocery,  and,  in  short,  every  description  of  merchandise 
which  might  by  any  possible  contingency  become  needful 
to  the  comfort  of  the  good  folks  in  her  neighbourhood.  The 
door  of  the  little  parlour  Avas  left  ajar,  so  that  our  heroine, 
while  occupied  in  her  usual  duty  of  instructing  her  infant 
cousin  in  her  rudimental  lessons,  could  hear  all  that  passed 
without.  A  snug-looking  farmer  was  bargaining  at  one 
side  of  the  shop  for  a  new  "  Poor  Man's  Manual,"  while 
his  wife,  a  quiet,  elderly  woman,  neatly  attired  in  a  scarlet 
rug  cloak  (a  favourite  article  of  dress  among  the  fair  ones 
of  the  coast),  and  a  decent  snow-white  handkerchief  simply 
tied  in  matron  fashion  over  her  head,  was  turning  over 
some  pieces  of  gingham  in  an  opposite  corner. 

"  Sixpence !"  the  Dinmont  of  Clare  exclaimed  in  a  tone 
of  expression  of  strong  surprise,  while  by  a  jerk  of  the 
frame  he  tossed  his  heavy  great-coat  higher  on  his  shoul- 
ders, as  if  preparing  at  once  to  depart.  "  No — Mrs.  Ra- 
hilly — take  four-pence  for  the  book,  an'  here  'tis  for  you." 

"  I  never  bought  it  for  thcmoney,"  said  Mrs.  Kahilly, 
replacing  the  book  on  the  shelf. 

"  Well — what's  your  lowest  offer  then  ! — I  don't  like, 
as  we're  ould  friends,  to  lave  the  money  anywhere  else  though 
I  protest  to  my  conshins,  Davy  Molony  below  street  offered 
me  the  same  book  for  four-pence  ha'p'ny." 

Mvs.  Rahilly  paused.  "  Well  then — bein  as  you  say, 
an  ould  cushtomer — split  the  dcffercnce,  an'  say  no  more 
about  it." 

"  That  I  may  be  blest  af  I  do,  now.  Here's  four-pence 
ha'p'ny,  an'  I  never  'II  go  back  o'  what  I  say. " 

''  liiiveit  for  the  li'-j^cniiy." 

*'  Oh,  ax  wool  of  a  goat — what  talk  it  is  V' 

"  Well,  may  be  herself  would  want  another." 

"  Oh,  never  heed  me,"  said  the  woman  smiling  and  laying 
5 


100  CARD  DKAWIXG. 

down  the  pattern  of  gingliam,  "  af  it's  prayer-books  you're 
talking  of,  I  can  say  my  I'osary  on  my  tiiigirs." 

"  You  are  attending  to  those  people  in  the  shop,  instead 
of  minding  your  task,"  said  Pcnnie,  chiding  her  little  pu- 
pil. "  Keep  your  eyes  on  the  book  now.  liead  on.  '  Thirty 
days—'  "  ■ 

The  child  read,  in  a  high  singing  tone,  the  lesson  from 
her  marble-covered  notation-book,  "Thirty  days  hath  Sep- 
tember, April,  June  au'  November,"-  &c.  On  a  sudden  she 
paused,  and  looking  into  her  cousin's  face,  said,  "  Peunie, 
are  you  goen  to  die  ?" 

Tlie  young  maiden  started  at  the  suddenness  of  the  ques- 
tion, and  then  looking  fixedly  in  surprise  on  the  child, 
"Why  do  you  ask  such  a  question  as  that,  honey?" 

"  Becase  Patcy  I\Iagrath,  he  toult  me  that  his  mammy 
said  you  vvor,  and  that  she  seen  it  by  you,  for  you  wor 
growing  thinner  an'  thinner  an'  paler  an'  paler  every  day, 
an'  that  you'd  die  before  long  an'  be  buried  like  uncle." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  the  poor  girl  smiling  rather  anx- 
iously- 

"I  hope  not  aither — for  what  'ud  /  do  at  all  then  ?  I 
wouldn't  have  any  body  to  taclie  me  my  lessons  or  do  a 
haiporth.  Aunt  Kahilly  eloesn't  know  B  from  a  bull's  foot, 
although  she  pretends  to  a  dale.  I  know  what  I'll  do  af  you 
die,  I'll  marry  Patcy  Magrath,  for  he's  a  fine  scholar — that's 
when  we're  big  enough — -an'  he'll  laru  me —  but  what  'U  I 
do  till  then?" 

"  Mind  your  tasks,  and  do  as  you  are  bid,  honey,  and 
say  your  prayers  regularly,  and  <jlod  will  be  a  father,  and 
uncle,  and  cousin,  and  all  to  you.  You  need  fear  nothing 
so  long  as  you  do  not  displease  hi  in." 

"That's  just  the  way  the  man  with  all  tlie  wool  about 
his  head  talked  to  me  in  the  coort-house,  when  I  toult  upon 

Dorgan  for  murderen  uncle What  ails  you  now,  Pen- 

nie  ?     I  can't  say  a  haiporth  to  you  ever  since  uncle  was 
kilt,  but  you  begin  to  cry  that  way.     Are  you  sick  ?     Be- 


CAItD  DRAWING.  101 

cause  if  yon  are,  I'll  go  an'  get  a  physic  o'  salts  from  Annt 
Ilahilly.  She  has  a  tub  o'  salts  abroad  that  would  cure 
the  world." 

At  this  moment,  the  sound  of  Dorgan's  name,  pronounced 
by  a  voice  that  was  fiimiiiar  to  her,  in  the  shop,  struck  on 
the  elder  maiden's  ear  and  prevented  her  reply.  She  put 
the  child  from  her  \vith  a  sudden  "  husht"  and  remained  in 
an  attitude  of  the  most  anxious  attention,  with  her  ear 
turned  towards  the  half-open  door. 

"  I  wonder  who  is  it  that's  minden  the  people  in  the  shop 
noiv"  said  the  child.  "  Well,  Pennie,  af  you  won't  hear 
me  my  lesson,  I'll  go  and  play  tig-touch-iron  wit'  Patcy 
Magrath  in  the  haggard,  an'  PU  have  it  for  you  agen  sup- 
per." 

She  slipped  out  of  the  house  through  a  back  door,  leaving 
Pennie  too  perfectly  absoi'bed  in  the  conversation  which 
was  now  passing  in  the  shop,  to  answer  or  even  to  notice  her 
departure. 

"  An'  is  it  now  they're  thinken  o'  throwen  a  doubt  upon 
his  guilt  ?"  said  the  farmer.  "  Here — take  a  pinch,  sir, 
while  the  box  is  open.  The  little  dust  o'  snuff  I  had  isn't 
much  the  better  o'  you  since  you  took  that  dhudorjue*  out 
of  it,  any  way.  But  as  for  Dorgan,  why  I  seen  the  guard 
goeu  to  the  gallows  with  him  myself,  though  I  couldn't  stop 
to  see  the  hangen." 

"  That  may  be  compatible  with  the  limits  o'  veracity," 
said  the  person  who  had  just  entered,  "  but  it  is  an  unde- 
niable fact,  that  Dorgan  has  been  approved  innocent' — and 
Kinchela  the  fisherman  from  the  Head,  has  come  forth  and 
prosecuted  his  confession  before  the  magistrate  as  the  real 
perpetraathur." 

The  conversation  was  here  cut  short  by  a  deep  groan, 
and  a  sound,  as  of  a  heavy  weight  descending,  in  the  inner 
parlour.  The  plan  which  had  been  constructed  fur  break- 
ing tiie  matter  to  Pennie  was  completely  baiiled  by  the 


102  CARD  DRA>nNG. 

awkwardness  of  the  well-meaiiing  pedant,  -wlio  blurted  out 
that  part  of  his  intelligence  which  comprised  the  most  hor- 
rible inference  in  the  very  commencement.  She  had  scarcely 
heard  it  uttered,  when  her  senses  failed  her,  and  she  sunk 
on  the  floor  iu  a  strong  convulsion  fit.  When  the  exer- 
tiuns  of  her  friends,  who  at  once  hastened  to  her  assistance, 
had  recalled  her  to  some  degree  of  consciousness,  she  be- 
kc'ld,  among  the  many  fiices  which  surrounded  her,  thoso 
of  the  clergyman  of  her  parish  before-mentioned,  and  the 
unfortunate  agent  of  the  discovery  she  had  made.  The 
former,  having  ascertained  the  degree  of  strength  which 
might  now  be  expected  IVom  her,  motioned  every  person  outof 
the  room,  with  the  exception  of  her  relative.  He  then  took 
Fennie's  hand  kindly. 

"  Are  you  prepared,"  he  said,  "  to  thank  your  God  for 
a  more  pleasing  piece  of  news  than  that  which  you  have 
just  heard  ?" 

The  girl  looked  in  his  face  with  a  gaze  of  bewildered  in- 
quiry. Her  lips  muttered,  as  if  unconsciously,  the  word 
'"  Dorgan,"  as  the  thought  which  floated  uppermost  in  her 
imagiaation. 

"•  Read  there,"  said  the  clergyman,  putting  into  her 
hands  a  letter,  folded. 

'I'he  blood  ruslied  forcibly  to  her  check,  brow,  and  her 
very  finger-ends,  and  again  recoiled,  so  as  to  leave  her  j)ale 
as  marble,  when  she  recognised  the  hand  of  Dorgan  in  the 
superscription.  She  ciuicklj  opened  the  note,  aud  read  as 
follows : 

Mt  Dear  Pexnie, 

(For  I  may  once  more  with  a  free  heart,  thanks 
be  to  the  Most  High,  call  you  by  that  name).  It  has 
pleased  Heaven  to  make  good  the  word  which  I  spoke  ou 
that  unfurtunate  day,  m  hen  I  told  my  judges  that  1  felt  it 
within  me  that  1  should  not  die  for  a  deed  of  which,  tho 


CARD  DRAWING.  103 

Lord  knows  my  heart,  and  which  is  since  proved,  I  was 
wholly  clear  and  innocent.  I  have  got  my  pardon — for  it 
seems  it  is  a  form  of  law,  that  when  an  innocent  man  is 
convicted,  after  suffering  imprisonment,  and  all  hardsliip 
and  anxiety,  instead  of  his  judges  asking  his  forgiveness, 
'tis  he  that  has  to  get  pardon  from  them,  for  being  so  un- 
fortunate as  to  be  condemned  and  very  nearly  hung  in  the 
wrong.  Now,  Pennie,  this  conies  by  the  hand  of  Fathfr 
Mahony,  to  tell  you,  that  of  all  things  in  the  world,  I  ad- 
mire and  love  you  for  your  conduct  on  that  day,  and  all 
through  this  dreadful  business.  I  know  well,  my  dear 
girl,  how  your  heart  is  accusing  you  at  this  moment,  but 
give  no  heed  to  such  thoughts,  I  beg  of  you,  and  let  them 
be  as  far  from  your  mind  as  they  are  from  mine,  for  you 
did  your  duty  nobly  :  and  Lord  Nelson,  my  glorious  and 
lamented  commander,  who  little  thought  I'd  be  brought  intr; 
such  trouble  on  account  of  the  victory  he  died  in  obtaining 
could  have  done  no  more  if  he  was  in  your  place.  I  hopo, 
therefore,  you  will  show  your  good  sense,  and  think  nc 
more  of  what  is  passed,  but  take  this  as  the  ti'ue  feeling  oi 
his  heart  from  hira  who  is  yours  uutil  death. 


Duke  Doegan. 


To  Penelope  Wl.ouglilen, 
at  11  rs.  Eahilly's  Shop,  Canigaholt. 


The  heroic  generosity  with  which  her  lover  thus  rose  su- 
perior to  all  the  petty  resentments  and  jealousies,  which  are 
incidental  to  the  passion,  even  in  the  most  vigorous  and 
straight-forward  minds,  sunk  deeply  into  the  heart  of  the 
young  woman.  Although  the  love  which  she  felt  for  Dorgan 
was  of  that  genuine  and  unaffected  kind,  which  is  wholly 
a  stranger  to  the  delicate  intricacies  and  refined  difficulties 
attendant  on  the  progress  of  this  most  capricious  of  affections, 
in  the  bosoms  of  those  who  boast  a  higher  rank  than  hers, 
yet  she  could  not  but  be  keenly  sensible  that  she  had  failed 


104  CARD  DKAWING. 

in  one  of  its  most  essential  qualities — an  unbounded  and  im- 
moveable confidence.  She  raised  her  eyes,  wliich  were  over- 
flowing with  tears  of  mingled  shame  and  gratitude,  towards 
the  clergyman,  when  a  creaidng  noise  at  the  door  attracted 
her  attention.  It  opened,  and  Dorgan  entered.  Her  agi- 
tation and  confusion  became  now  extreme,  nor  were  they 
diminished  when  her  lover  advanced  to  her  side  with  a  re- 
spectful gentleness,  and  said: — 

"  Pennie,  you  see  we  meet  happier  and  sooner  than  we 
expected.  I  hope  you'll  be  said  by  Avhat  1  mentioned  to 
j'ou  in  the  letter,  and  give  me  your  hand  now  in  token  that 
all  is  forgotten." 

"  I  give  you  my  hand  freely,  Dorgan,"  the  girl  replied, 
still  blushing  deeply,  "and  bless  your  good,  generous  heart; 
but  all  cannot  be  forgotten.  I  may  be  liieuds  with  you 
again :  but  I  never  can  be  friends  witli  myself  as  long  as 
ever  I  live.  There  is  a  load  now  laid  upon  jny  mind,  that 
never  will  be  taken  oH"  until  the  day  I  die." 

Dorgan,  assisted  by  his  reverend  friend,  applied  himself, 
and  as  it  proved,  not  unsuccessfully,  to  combat  this  feeling  ; 
after  Avhich  the  latter  departed,  liaving  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity of  impressing  on  both  the  obligations  ■\\liich  they  owed 
to  Providence  for  the  turn  wliich  their  fortunes  had  taken. 

The  imagination  of  the  reader  may  be  safely  trusted  with 
the  details  of  the  ensuing  days  ;  the  penitence  of  Kinchcla, 
and  the  distraction  of  his  aged  mother,  who  could  scarcely 
be  persuaded,  even  by  his  own  assertion,  that  t!ie  son,  whom 
she  had  found  so  faultless,  could  thus  suddenly  break  upon 
her  knowledge  in  a  character  so  new  and  hideous.  Dorgan 
took  care,  on  his  establishment  in  his  native  village,  to  fuliil 
the  promise  which  he  had  made  to  Kincliela. 

About  a  year  after  this,  the  handsome  Mrs.  Dorgan  waj 
sitting  at  the  door  of  her  l)arn,  superintending  a  number  of 
girls  wlio  were  employed  in  skutching  flax  in  the  interior, 
■when  her  eye  was  attracted  by  an  old  wonian,  who  raised 
the  latch  of  the  farm-yaixl  gate,  and,  making  a  low  courtcs^y, 


CARD  DRAWING.  105 

said,  "  You  wouldn't  have  any  kid-skins,  rabbit-skins,  or 
goose-quills  to  sell,  ma'am  ?" 

Mrs.  Dorgan  coloured  to  the  very  border  of  her  rich 
tresses  when  she  recognised,  and  was  recognised  in  turn  by 
the  Card-drawer. 

"  Well,  darlen,  didn't  it  come  true  Avhat  I  toult  you  that 
mornen  behind  the  stacks?"  she  asked,  with  a  knowing  wink. 

"  It  did  ;  but  I  have  learned  to  know  since,  that  it  was 
more  by  yom-  good  luck  than  your  skill,  that  you  hit  the 
mark  so  cleverly,  You  said  that  himself  was  far  away  at 
the  time  too,  and  he  was  close  at  our  side." 

"  A'  then  sure  he  ought  to  have  more  sense  than  to  trust 
me — a  man  that  spoke  like  a  priest,  they  tell  me,  before  the 
crowner.  But  all  that  is  over  with  me  now ;  for  sure  I 
paid  Father  Mahony  better  than  five  pounds  restitution 
money,  no  longer  ago  than  istherday,  an  I'm  to  be  tuk  into 
the  pale  of  his  flock  agen,  wit  a  trifle  more  hones'y  made 
wit  hare-skins,  and  writcu-quills,  an  one  thing  or  another 
that  way — an  I'm  to  live  quietly,  an  to  have  uo'-heu  more 
to  say  to  the  Card  Drawing." 


The  foregoing  Tale  was  suggested  by  an  occurreu:3  which 
took  place  some  years  since  on  the  estate  and  even  close  to 
the  deaiesne  gate  of  the  late  John  Waller,  Esq.,  of  Castle- 
town in  the  County  of  Limerick,  a  name  which  will  -jver  be 
dear  aad  venerable  to  the  hearts  of  all  who  remember  him 
who  bore  it.  A  cruel  murder  had  been  perpetrated.  Many 
persons  were  apprehended  and  executed  for  the  criine  and 
amongst  thtjse  a  sailor  who  had  only  i-eturncd  to  his  na- 
tive village  the  very  evening  before  the  murder  was  com- 
mitted! Tne  story  went  that  his  clothes  had  boen  pur- 
lo'ued  durii'g  his  sleep  by  one  of  the  real  deliuqu'SMts,  who 
escaped  detection  in  the  disguise,  while  the  identity  of  the 
dress  tended  to  place  the  crimi  at  the  door  of  the  uuofleud- 
ing  sailor. 

END  OF    CAT:D    DRAWIxa, 


SONNETS— INTKODUCTORY. 


GliTCXs  of  the  ■west!   the  days  are  past  and  done, 

Since,  while  the  north  wind  howled  amidst  your  bowers, 
And  liurrying  through  his  course  of  frequent  showers, 
Sped,  pale,  mid  winter  mists  the  southern  sun: 
When  the  vext  Shannon,  rid  by  ruffian  gales 

That  whipped  his  foainin'ij  sides  with  tireless  hand, 
Shook  [lis  white  mane  along  the  darkening  strand, 
And  bounded  licrcely  by  the  leafless  vales : 
Since — when  our  turfen  fire  niOfde  glad  the  hearth, 
And  shone  on  merry  faces,  gathered  near 
"With  untaught  song,  lighl  jest,  and  drowsy  story— 
We  blest  the  wintry  eve,  with  gentle  mirth — 
Or  in  soft  sorrow  lent  a  pensive  ear, 
To  tales  of  Erin's  elder  strength  and  faded  glory. 


Ambition,  absence,  death,  have  thinned  the  number 
Of  those  who  met  beside  your  evening  fires: 
Some,  gathered  to  the  ashos  of  our  sires, 

On  yonder  sacred  mount  in  silence  slumber: 

Some,  scattered  far,  extend  their  longing  hands 

Towards  some  loved  shades,  and  lonely  walks  in  vaia, 
For  never  shall  your  sun  behold  again 

Their  early  foot-prints  on  your  dewy  lands— 

And  never  more  within  that  ruined  gate, 

Shall  their  blithe  voices  cheer  the  hush'd  domain- 
Yet  some  are  lel't  to  pace  your  dreary  vvays, 

Some  cherished  friends,  in  whose  sweet  circle  late. 
Old  joys  cauie  hovering  round  my  heart  again.— 
i'aiat  echoes  of  tho  bliaa  wc  knew  ia  earl/  days. 

106 


THE    HALF    SIR. 

CHAPTER  I. 

A  gentleman  that  loves  no  noise — The  Silent  Woman, 

The  Wren-boys  of  Shanagoldcn,  a  small  village  in  the 
south--\vcst  of  Ireland,  were  all  assembled  pursuant  to  cus- 
tom on  the  green  before  the  chapel-door,  on  a  fine  frosty 
morning,  being  the  twenty-sixth  of  December,  or  Saint 
Stephen's  day — a  festival  yet  held  in  much  reverence  in 
Munster,  although  the  Catholic  church  has  for  many  years 
ceased  to  look  upon  it  as  a  holiday  of  "  obligation."* 
Seven  or  eiglit  handsome  young  fellows,  tricked  out  iu 
ribbons  of  the  gayest  colours,  white  waistcoats  and  stock- 
ings, and  furnished  with  musical  instruments  of  various 
kinds — a  fife,  a  pipolo,  an  old  drum,  a  ci-acked  fiddle,  and 
a  set  of  bagpipes — assumed  their  place  in  the  rere  of  the 
procession,  and  startled  the  yet  slumbering  inhabitants  of 
the  neighbouring  houses,  by  a  fearfully  discordant  prelude. 
Behind  those  came  the  Wren-boy,  par  excellence,  a  lad 
Avho  bore  in  his  hands  a  holly-bush,  the  leaves  of  which 
were  interwoven  ^ith  long  streamers  of  red,  yellow,  blue, 
and  white  ribbon  ;  all  which  finery,  nevertheless,  in  no  May 
contributed  to  reconcile  the  little  mottled  tenant  of  the 
bower  (a  wren  which  was  tied  by  the  leg  to  one  of  the 
boughs)  to  his  state  of  durance.     After  the  Wren-boy 

*  A  holiday  rendering  it  obligatory  on  all  the  members  oi"  \h» 
Church  to  hear  mass  and  refraiii  frum  servile  work. 


108  THE  HALF  SIR. 

canio,  a  promiscuous  crowd  of  youngsterf,  of  all  n.ixcs 
under  fifteen,  composing  just  sucli  a  little  ragged  rabble 
as  one  observes  attending  the  band  of  a  marching  regiment 
on  its  eutrance  into  a  country  town,  shouting,  hallooing, 
laughing,  aid  jolnuig  in  apt  chorus  with  the  droning,  shril- 
ling, sque&kiiig,  and  rattling  of  the  musicians  of  the  morn. 
After  proceeding  along  the  road  for  about  half  a  mile, 
the  little  rustic  procession  turned  aside  into  a  decent  avenue, 
which  led,  in  the  antique  fashion  (that  is  to  say,  by  a  line 
60  direct,  that  if  you  rested  a  musket  on  the  lock  of  tlie 
gate,  you  could  put  a  bullet  in  the  very  centre  panel  of 
the  ha!l-door),  to  a  house  no  less  quaint  in  its  form  than 
its  approach — a  square-built  pile,  staruling  bolt  upi'ight  on 
the  top  of  a  hillock,  -with  a  plain  rough-cast  front,  in  which 
were  two  rows  of  small  square  windows,  and  a  hall-door 
Avith  two  steps  leading  up  to  it — presenting,  in  short,  such 
a  facade  as  children  are  accustomed  to  cut  out  of  paper — • 
so  flat,  so  regular,  and  quakerly.  A  line  of  soldier-like 
looking  elms  ran  along  the  avenue  wall  on  either  side,  and 
filed  oiF  with  the  most  unexceptionable  precision  to  the 
rere  of  the  building,  taking  the  kitchen-garden  in  flank, 
and  foiling  into  a  hollow  square  about  the  paddock  and 
haggart. 

Before  the  hall-door  was  a  semi-circular  gravel  plot,  iu 
which  the  avenue  lost  itself,  as  a  canal  terminates  in  its 
basin.  Around  this  space  the  procession  formed,  and  the 
Wren-boy,  elevating  his  bush,  gave  out  the  opening  stave 
of  the  festive  chant,  in  which  the  whole  rout  presently 
joined  ; 

"  The  Wran  !  the  Wrnn  !  the  hinrj  of  all  birds, 

St  Stcphtns  iht)/ inas  catighJ.  in  the.  furze  j 

Although  he's  little,  hix  ftmilfs  great 

Get  uji,  Jair  laities  !  and  (jloe  us  a  trute  ! 

And  if  your  trnte  he  of  the  be,.', 

hi  heaven  ire  hope  your  soul  will  rest  !^ 

As  the  din  of  the  chorus  died  away,  one  of  the  lower 
windows  was  thrown  up,  and  two  of  the  "  fair  ladies"  ap- 


THE  HALF  SIR.  109 

pealed  to,  presented  themselves  to  the  praises  and  blessings 
of  the  admiring  rustics.  One  of  them  could  scarcely  have 
justified  the  epithet — she  was  of  a  dark-brown  complexion, 
and  a  slight  shadowing  across  the  forehead  would  have  led 
a  person  not  disposed  to  argue  favourably  of  the  indication, 
to  suppose  that  she  had  already  declined,  and  }"et  not  much, 
into  the  vale  of  years.  Tiiirty  or  two-and-tliirty  might 
have  brought  the  change.  There  was,  moreover,  a  proud 
fiery  lustre  in  her  eye  which  Avould  account  perliaps  for 
many  of  the  invidious  lines.  The  smile,  nevertheless,  which 
she  instantly  accorded  to  the  villagers,  showed  that  lier 
pride  was  not  the  deflect  of  her  heart  or  disposition,  but 
the  accident  of  a  conscious  superiority  either  of  rank  or  of 
mind.  Her  companion  was  a  pretty  lively  girl,  with  health 
on  her  checks,  and  mirth  and  langiiter  in  her  eye — and 
nothing  more. 

"•  Which  o'  the  two  is  Miss  O'Bricii  ?"  asked  one  of  the 
mummers,  in  a  whisper,  to  his  companion. 

"Can't  you  know  the  real  lady  ?"  was  the  reply.  "  Don't 
yon  see  it  in  her  eye,  and  in  her  smile.  Tliei-e  she  is — 
the  dark  one." 

"  Come,  plase  your  honour,  ladies,  ordher  soomthen  out 
to  the  Wran.  He  come  a  long  way  to  see  ye'r  honours 
this  morning.  Long  life  to  you,  Mister  Falahee !  The 
"VVran  thanks  you,  sir,"  as  a  half-crown,  flung  by  an  elderly 
gentleman  who  madvi  his  appearance  at  the  window,  ji  igled 
on  the  gravel- walk.  "•  And  sonuuer*  to  you,  Miss  Mary, 
and  that  before  the  frost  is  otf  the  gioimd ;  we  are  goeu 
to  call  on  Misther  Charles  himself  next." 

The  younger  of  the  ladies  blushed  deep  crimson. 

"  Stay  until  Davy  gives  you  a  drink,  lads,"  said  Mr, 
Falahee. 

A  new  uproar  of  thanks,  and  "  long  lives,"  and  sundry 
other  benedictions,  followed  this  invitation,  in  the  midst 
of  whica  old  Davy  made  his  appearance  at  the  hall-door 
*  Good  spouse. 


110  THE  HALF  SIB. 

with  a  tin-can  full  of  cider  of  his  own  brewage,  and  a  smile 
on  his  wrinkled  face,  that  showed  with  how  much  good 
v/ill  he  fell  into  the  hospitable  humour  of  his  master.  The 
lads  swarmed  about  him  as  flies  do  about  a  lump  of  sugar. 

"  Have  you  been  at  Mr.  Hamoud's  yet,  lads  ?"  inquired 
Mr.  Falahee. 

"Aw!  not  we,  sir.  It's  always  the  way  with  the  Wrau 
to  pay  his  compliments  to  the  real  gentlemen  first." 

"  Why — "  said  the  worthy  but  flattered  host,  with  an 
ill-suppressed  smile,  "  is  not  Mr.  Hamond  a  real  gentle- 
man ?" 

"  No,  plase  your  honour,  not  a  real  undoubted  gentle- 
man that  way,  all  out." 

"  I'm  sure  Castle  Hamond  is  as  fine  a  property  as  there 
is  in  the  barony." 

"  0  we  don't  mean  to  dispute  that,  sir.  But  himself, 
you  see,  he's  nothing.     Wliat  is  he  but  a  bit  of  a  half  sir?" 

"  A  what  ?"  exclaimed  tlic  elder  lady. 

"  A  half  sir,  ma'am,"  turning  toward  her  with  gi-eat  re- 
spect, and  giving  his  forelock  a  drag  which  seemed  to 
signity  that  had  he  got  such  a  thing  as  a  hat  on,  he  would 
Lave  taken  it  otf  to  her  honour. 

"  What  do  you  call  a  half  sir  ?" 

"  A  man  that  has  not  got  any  blood  in  him,  ma'am.** 

"  A  man  that  has  got  no  blood  in  him  1" 

"  Koen ;  any  more  than  meself.  A  sort  of  a  small  gen- 
tleman, that  way:  the  siuglings  of  a  gentleman,*  as  it  were. 
A  made  man — not  a  born  gentleman.  ISIot  great,  all  out, 
nor  poor,  that  way  entirely.  Betuxt  and  betuue,  as  you 
may  say.  Neither  good  pot-ale,  nor  yet  strong  whiskey. 
Neither  beef  nor  vale.  Caoile  Hamond !  What's  Castle 
Ilamond  to  me,  as  long  as  the  masLer  wouldn't  conduct 
himself  proper  !  A  man  that  wouldn't  go  to  a  hunt,  nor 
a  race-course,  nor  a  cock-fight,  nor  a  hurleu-matcli,  nor  a 

*  The  singlings  are  the  first  running  of  spirits  in  the  process  o/ 
distillation 


TRE  HALF  SIR.  Ill 

dance,  nor  a  fencen-bont,  nor  any  one  born  thing.  Sure 
that's  no  gentleman  !  A  man  that  gives  no  parties,  nor 
was  never  known  yet  to  be  drunk  in  his  OAvn  house.  0 
poh  ! — A  man  that  was  ne>er  seen  to  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket  on  a  frosty  mornen  rnd  say  to  a  poor  man,  '  Hoy, 
hoy !  my  good  fellow,  here's  a  tinpenny  for  you,  and  get  a 
drop  o'  somethen  warn  and  comfortable  agen  the  daj^ !  A 
man  that  was  never  be  any  mains  overtalcen  in  liquor 
himself,  nor  the  cause  of  anybody  else  being  so,  either.  Sure 
such  a  man  as  that  has  no  heart  ?" 

"  Tell  me,  my  good  lad,"  said  the  lady,  with  much  se- 
riousness,  "  is  this  I\Ir.  Hamond  a  miser  ?" 

"  0  dear,  ko,  ma'am,"  exclaimed  liis  accuser,  "  nobody 
has  anything  to  charge  agen  him  on  that  score,  I'm  sure." 

"  Does  he  ever  assist  the  poor  in  his  neighbourhood  ?" 

"  Indeed  that  he  does  ;  there's  no  gainsaying  that  any 
way." 

"  Is  he  ever  found  in  the  cottages  of  the  sick  and  the 
distressed." 

"There's  no  doubt  o'  that.  He  is  indeed.  The  time 
the  faver  was  ragen  there  last  summer,  he  was  like  a  priest 
or  a  doctor,  goen  about  from  bedside  to  bedside,  ordering 
wine  here,  and  blankets  there,  and  paying  for  every  thing 
out  of  his  own  purse.  I  declare  ma'am,"  the  speaker  con- 
tinued, warming  with  his  subject  so  as  totally  to  forget  his 
late  invective,  "  'twould  be  an  admiration  to  you  to  know  the 
eighth  o'  money  he  laid  out  in  that  way." 

"  And  tell  me,  did  the  racing,  and  cock-fighting  and 
hunting  gentlemen  do  a  great  deal  more  ?  The  real  gentle- 
men, I  mean." 

"  Is  it  they  ?  no — nor  half  as  much,  the  whole  pnt  toge- 
ther." 

*'  But  Mr.  Hamond  has  no  heart  for  all  that  ?" 

"  0 —  eh  ? — heart — "  the  man  repeated  in  a  puzzled 
tone.  "He  has  re^^i/i'o/i,  ma'am — rcUig ion  and  charity 
— that's  what  he  has." 


112  THE  HALF  SIR. 

"  Then  what  you  mean  by  '  heart,'  is,  I  suppose,  rlrunk* 
enness,  proiligality,  gambliug — all,  hi  short,  that  isoppose'l 
to  religion  and  charity  ?" 

''AA'hy  then — "  afier  a  pause,  "  heaven  forgive  uz,  1 
b'lieve  tiiat's  the  raanen  we  put  upon  it." 

"And  Mr.  Haniond  has  none  of  that?" 

"No,  indeed,  ma'am." 

"  I'm  satislied,"  said  the  lady,  retiring  from  the  window, 
and  leaving  the  young  man  a-gape  to  comprehend  her 
meaning. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  whole  procession  was  again  in  mo- 
tion, drumming,  squeaking,  shouting,  and  laughing  down 
the  avenue.  After  they  had  fairly  seen  them  oft",  Mr. 
Falahee  and  his  daughter  returned  to  the  breakfast  table. 

"  Ho  !  ho!  where  is  Miss  O'Brien  gone?"  said  the  old 
gentleman. 

"  I  declare,  I  don't  know,"  said  an  old  grandmama,  who 
sat  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  tire-side  ;  "she  only  took  one 
cup  of  coffee,  and  there  is  her  spoon  in  her  saucer — so  she 
wasn't  done." 

"Has  anybody  done  anything  to  offend  her  to-day T' 
said  Mr.  Falahee,  laying  an  emphasis  on  the  word,  as  if 
the  takinc)  offence  were  a  matter  of  not  unfrequent  occur- 
rence. 

"  I — I'm  sure  not  I,  at  any  rate,"  said  Miss  Falahee ; 
"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  her.  May  be  'twas  some- 
thing the  wien-boy  said." 

"  Best  send  to  her,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "  Nelly, 
go  and  see  Avhat  keeps  your  mistress." 

In  a  few  minutes  Nelly  returned.  Her  mistress  had  done 
breakfast,  and  was  preparing  to  ride  out.  She  wisiied  to 
know  whether  Mr.  Falahee  would  accompany  her  in  the  di- 
rection of  which  they  had  been  speaking  tlie  day  before. 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  was  Mi-.  Falahee's  reply  ;   "  unless  she 
is  afraid  of  meeting  the  Boouy-vian*  of  the  hills,  for  our 
*  Analogous  to  Orecn-skeves  in  Eiiiiland. 


-Vi 


THE  HALF  sIR.  113 

road  lies  by  Castle  Ilamond.  He'd  eat  us  up  in  one  bit 
for  being  of  real  geutlemanly  race,  I  suppose  ;  or  having 
blood  in  our  veins,  as  Terry  Lenigan  says.  'I'hey  say  he 
hates  anybody  that  has  got  a  decent  coat  on  his  back,  and 
detests  any  finery — especially  in  the  fair  sex,"  he  added, 
glancing  satirically  at  the  gold  chain  and  cross  which  en- 
circled the  neck  of  his  daughter,  "  as  much  as  sin  itself," 

"  More,  may  be,  papa,"  minced  out  Miss  Falahee;  "he's 
a  great,  rude,  good-for-nothing  fellow,  I'll  engage," 

"  You'd  engage  what  would  be  very  wrong,  my  dear," 
said  her  father.  "  Mr.  Lynch,  who  is  his  clergyman  as  well 
as  ours,  assures  me  that  a  more  charitable,  meek-tempered, 
religious,  excellent  man  docs  not  exist  within  the  precincts 
of  his  parish  ;  and  that  his  single  infirmity  which  appears 
to  have  been  occasioned  by  some  dreadful  misfortune  in 
early  life,  is  solely  the  defect  of  his  brain  ;  and  that  more- 
over, it  is  the  constant  object  of  all  his  exertions  to  acquire 
a  conquest  over  himself  in  this  respect.  You  heard  what 
Terry  Lenigan  himself  said  about  his  conduct  to  tiic  poor 
in  his  neighbourhood,  during  the  fever  that  raged  last  sum- 
mer." 

Miss  Falahee's  reply  was  cut  short  by  the  appearance  of 
a  dashing  young  horseman  before  the  windows.  He  curbed 
in  the  animal  gracefully,  as  he  came  ou  the  gravel-plot — 
made  a  flourishing  salute  with  his  hazel  switch,  as  he  passed 
the  window  at  a  pretty,  mincing  trot,  and  finally  dis- 
mounted at  the  hall  door. 

"  There  goes  another  gentleman,"  said  Mi-.  Falahee ; 
"  the  Wren-boys  were  mistaken  in  supposing  they  sliould 
find  Mr.  Charles  at  home.  Come,  prepare  your  smiles  and 
your  graces  now,  Mary." 

"For  shame,  papa — you  make  one  blush  sol  I  v.;sh  you'd 
speak  to  him,  gran'ma." 

The  door  was  opened  before  the  old  dowager  could  haA  d 
complied,  and  in  w^a'.kcd  a  tali,  sharp  laced,  long- nosed, 
foolish  hands  me  young  man,  looking  like  a  preserved  Lou- 


114  THE  HALF  SIR. 

den  street-dandy,  of  the  third  or  fourth  year  preceding,  and 
carrying  the  similitude  into  his  manner  and  accent ;  which 
last  was  a  strange  compound  of  the  coarsest  Munster  brogue, 
and  the  most  oriental  cockney  dialect — the  latter  being 
superadded  during  a  residence  of  a  few  years  at  the  house 
of  a  friend  who  possessed  a  wharf  somewhere  between  the 
]\Iinories  and  Wapping.  All  this,  however,  passed  for  the 
purest  Attic  among  many  of  his  home  friends,  and  was  very 
instiumental  in  gaining  him  the  heart  of  the  simple  young 
maiden  who  rose  with  all  the  pretty,  panting,  palpitating 
eagerness  of  unbounded  admiration,  to  receive  him. 

"  Haw  !  how  aw  ye,  Mistaw  Falahce  ?  How  d'  do  maum? 
Haw,  Mary,"  he  added,  extending  his  hand  to  his  timid, 
shrinking,  and  smiling  love,  with  an  air  of  patronage  and 
encouragement,  and  twice  shaking  the  tips  of  her  lingers, 
"  how  d'  do,  ray  garl  ?  Be  sated,  pray."  Tiien  throwing 
himself  into  an  easy  chair,  extending  his  legs  to  their  fur- 
thest limit  on  the  carpet,  pulling  up  his  peaked  and  polished 
shirt-collar,  to  the  imminent  danger  of  the  tip  of  his  nose, 
smoothing  down  his  lofty  black  silk  stock,  and  whisking 
some  dust  from  the  lappel  of  his  green  (piaker  cut  coat  with 
the  fingers  of  his  glove — "A  foine,  smawtniawnen,  Mistaw 
Falahee,"  he  proceeded,  "  I  just  called  in  to  ask  if  you  were 
all  aloive  here." 

"  Going  to  course,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Whoy,  yes — oy  b'lieve — though  the  ground  is  rawthcr 
hawd.  No  mattaw  !"  switching  his  boots,  and  in  the  action 
drawing  the  rod  within  an  inch  of  Mary's  blue  eyes.  "Oj'U 
go  aisy  enough — I'm  cocked." 

"■  Cocked  or  no,  Charles,  I  wish  yon  woidd  stay  with  us 
to-day.  I  have  a  greac  deal  to  do,  and  Miss  O'Brieu  wants 
some  person  to  squire  her  about." 

The  long  countenance  of  Mr.  Charles  Lane  became  slill 
longer  at  this  request ;  for,  by  some  unaccountable  means, 
tills  worthy  lady  had  acquired  a  strange  and  disagreeable 
iiillueuce  over  him — the  inliuence  which  all  persons  of  real 


THE  HALF  SIR.  115 

rank  and  elej^nnce  at  all  times  possess  over  the  vulgar  pre- 
tender to  fiisiiion.  The  young  dandy  IMuiisterman  found 
tliat  a  spell  was  cast  upon  him  the  moment  he  entered  Miss 
O'Brien's  presence.  His  "  aws"  and  his  assurance  inva- 
riably failed  him.  Ee  spoke  little — kept  his  legs  in — but- 
toned up  his  side  pockets — stole  the  flaming  yellow  silk 
handkerchief  out  of  sight — and,  in  a  word,  kept  the  dandy 
as  much  in  the  background  as  possible,  In  vain  did  he 
make  many  strenuous  efforts  to  shake  off  this  secret  yoke 
which  the  good  lady  had,  quite  unconsciously,  cast  upon 
him  ;  his  struggles  (like  those  of  his  country)  served  only 
to  make  him  feel  the  weight  of  his  fetters  the  more  severely. 
In  vain  did  he  loll  in  his  chair,  pass  his  fingers  about  his 
long  and  curling  hair,  and  endeavour  to  swagger  himself 
into  a  degree  of  ease  and  confidence ;  a  single  glance  suf- 
ficed to  call  hiin  to  a  still  more  confused  sense  of  inferiority 
and  ipental  servitude.  In  vain  did  he,  when  alone,  pislt! 
and  pooh  !  at  the  wrinkled  old  maid,  as  in  tlie  malice  of  his 
heart  he  rather  unjustly  termed  her.  In  vain  did  the  laily 
herself  (wlienever,  indeed  she  thought  of  the  gentleman  at 
all)  endeavour  by  the  most  winning  sweetness  and  kindness 
of  manner  to  place  him  on  good  terms  with  himself — nothing 
could  overcome  his  awe  and  his  dislike.  What  puzzled  and 
surprised  him  a  great  deal,  moreover,  was,  that  Mary,  who 
stood  quite  as  much  in  awe  of  him  as  he  did  of  Miss  O'Brien, 
was  always  perfectly  easy  and  self-possessed  in  the  presence 
of  that  formidable  lady ;  so  much  so,  as  frequently  to  fail 
in  the  respect  which  was  certainly  due  from  the  one  to  the 
otiier. 

Kotwitlistanding  all  this  consciousness,  however,  and  al- 
though Vx.\:  Lane  felt  himself  never  so  uncomfortable  as 
when  he  was  in  the  presence  of  IMiss  O'Brien,  an  odd  kind 
of  infatuation  made  him  constantly  seek  opportunities  to 
throw  himself  in  her  way,  always  promising  liimself  (what 
every  day's  experience  told  him  Avas  not  to  be  fulfilled),  tliat 
he  would  find  £omc  means  or  other  of  impressing  her  with 


116  THE  HALF  SIR. 

tlie  conviction  that  lie  Avas  lier  "  equal,"  Every  attention, 
in  consequence,  wiiicli  slie  condescended  to  show  him  (ut- 
terly ignorant  in  th-3  simple  siu;i,leness  of  her  good  heart, 
of  the  queer  kind  of  civil  war  she  occasioned  in  his  breast), 
while  it  confused  and  abashed  him,  did  not  fail  to  flatter  his 
vanity ;  and  now,  although  the  tremendous  i)ro]30sition  of 
ridhig  out  actually  alone  with  the  great  personage  at  first 
startled  and  alarmed  him,  it  was  not  difhcult  to  prevail  on 
him  to  saciiiicc  the  day's  hunting  to  this  opportunity  of 
displaying  himself  under  so  many  advantages  (for  he  Avas 
the  best  horseman  in  the  country)  to  the  eyes  of  a  person, 
whose  approbation  appeared  to  be  of  more  consequence  to 
him  than  that  of  the  whole  world  besides. 

He  assented,  tlierefore,  to  Mr.  Falahee's  arrangement ; 
and  thrusting  his  gloves  and  the  handle  of  his  whip  into  hia 
hat,  took  his  seat  in  a  more  permanent  form  by  the  blazing 
fire,  and  commenced  playing  at  hot-hands  Avith  Mary,  until 
Miss  O'Brien  should  be  ready  to  set  out. 

We  Avill  leave  the  happy  pair  in  the  enjoyment  of  their 
intellectual  pastime,  and  follow  the  Wren-boys,  Avho,  having 
by  this  time  been  made  somcAvhat  meriy  by  the  good  treat- 
ment they  had  received  at  the  houses  of  several  otlier  gentle- 
men, are  likely  to  furnish  us  Avith  a  greater  fund  of  adventure. 

They  had  by  this  time  arrived  at  an  avenue  gate,  Avhich, 
from  the  Avildiiess  and  singularity  of  its  situation,  appeared 
to  constitute  the  api)roach  of  one  of  the  older  and  more  se- 
cluded seats  which  Avere  used  by  the  gentry  of  the  country. 
The  entrance  consisted  of  two  massive  cut  stone  piers,  sur- 
mounted by  a  pair  of  battered  eagles,  and  supporting  a 
heavy  Avooden  gate,  Avhich  was  simply  fastened  in  the  centre 
by  a  loop  of  hay  rope  tied  to  one  jamb  and  thrown  over  tiie 
other.  The  avenue,  Avhicli  Avas  so  overgrown  Avith  grass, 
brambles,  and  dog-fennel,  as  to  leave  little  more  than  tiie 
footpacli  visible  in  the  centre,  seemed  to  intimate  either  that 
the  mansion  to  Avhicli  it  led  Avas  the  property  of  an  absentee, 
or  that  it  was  the  retideuce  of  some  person  A\ho  \\as  not 


TEE  HALF  SIB.  117 

anxious  to  enter  into  the  strife  of  emulative  hospitality  with 
the  gently  in  his  iieighbrjurlioocl. 

"  Castle  Frainoiul !  Here  it  is  ! — Will  we  go  up,  boys  ?" 
asked  one  of  the  party. 

"  I  say,  no !"  exclaimed  the  Buhal  DroIIeen — whose  aris- 
tacratic  spirit  had  been  rendered  still  moi-e  over-topping  than 
ever  by  the  inspiration  of  the  many  sparkling  glasses  he  had 
tasted  since  he  had  first  broached  his  sentiments  while  Davy 
broached  his  cider.  "  Tlie  wran  won't  show  himself  to  any 
but  a  raal  gintleman  to-day." 

"  Pch !  what  is  it  after  all — Isn't  he  as  good  as  old  Fala- 
hee  if  you  go  to  that  of  it,  and  he  keeps — liemmy  O'Lone 
tells  me — that's  his  own  man — the  best  of  every  thing, 
and  has  a  full  purse  moreover.  And  he's  a  Cromwaylian, 
any  way."* 

"  Is  lie  a  Cromwaylian  ?"  inquired  the  refractory  wren- 
boy,  trying  to  steady  himself,  and  moved  to  a  hesitation 
rather  by  the  prospect  of  Mr.  Hamond's  good  cheer  than  by 
the  new  point  of  genealogy  that  was  made  out  for  him. 
"  Can  you  make  it  out  that  he's  a  Cromwaylian  ?" 

"  Sure  the  world  knows  it,  and  many  says  he's  one  o' 
the  Bag-and-Bunf  men,  too." 

"  Oh — tlien  the  Wran  will  pay  him  his  compliments. 
Come  along,  boys."  And  staggering  toward  the  gate, 
which  he  opened  after  making  several  efforts  to  ascertain 
the  precise  geography  of  its  fastening,  he  led  the  way,  shout- 
ing and  singing  by  turns,  along  the  mossy  and  rarely  trod- 
den avenue. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  had  marshalled  themselves  before 
thfe  house  (a  ruined  building,  the  greater  number  of  the 

*  The  descendants  of  those  who  camo  over  v?ith  Cromwell, 
i   The  descendants  of  those  who  landed  at  Bag-and-Bun  with 
Richard  Fitzstephens,  the  first  British  invader  of  Ireland.     Thus  the 

adage 

*'  At  the  creek  of  Bagganbun, 
Ireland  was  ylost  and  wonne." 


118  THE  HALF  SIE. 

windows  of  which  were  broken,  stuifecl  with  newspapers, 
pieces  of  blackened  board,  and  old  clothes,)  aud  set  up  a 
new  stave  of  their  traditional  anthem. 

"  Last  Christmas-day  I  ttirn'd  the  spit^ 

I  hurn'd  my  finf/er — (I  feel  it  yet) — ■ 

A  cock  spat  7-010  few  over  the  table, 

The  dish  heyaii  to  Jiyht  ivilh  the  ladle— 

The  spit  got  up  like  a  naked  man. 

And  swore  he'djifd  ivith  the  dripping-pan^ 

The  pan  got  vp  and  cock'd  his  tail, 

And  swore  he'd  send  them  all  to  jail  /" 

The  merry  makers,  however,  did  not  receive  so  ready  a 
welcome  at  Castle  ilamond  as  they  had  done  at  most  otlier 
houses.  The  chorus  died  away  in  perfect  silence,  and  the 
expectant  eyes  of  the  singers  glanced  from  casement  to 
casement  for  several  minutes,  but  no  one  appeared.  Again 
they  raised  their  voices   and  were  commencing — • 

«♦  The  Wran! the " 

when  a  bundle  of  newspapers  was  withdrawn  from  a  broken 
pane,  and  in  their  place  a  head  and  arm  made  their  appear- 
ance. It  was  a  hatchet-face,  with  a  pair  of  peeping  jiig's 
eyes  set  close  (like  a  fish's)  on  either  side — the  mouth  half 
open,  an  expression  of  mingled  wonder  and  curiosity  de- 
picted on  the  features — and  a  brown  straight-haired  wig, 
which  time  had  reduced  to  a  baldness  almost  as  great  as  that 
of  the  head  which  it  covered,  shooting  down  on  each  side, 
like  a  bunch  of  luslies,  ton ards  the  shoulders. 

"  Good  morrow,  Mv.  Ilemmy,"  said  tlie  young  man  who 
had  advocated  the  title  of  the  [uoprletor  of  Castle  Ilamond 
to  the  homage  of  the  Wreu — "  we're  come  to  pay  our  com- 
pliments to  the  master." 

"  Whist !  whist!  dear  boys  !"  exclaimed  the  head,  while 
the  arm  aud  hand  were  waved  toward  them  in  a  cautionary 
manner. 


THE  HALF  SIR.  119 

"  Poh,  wliat  tvhisht  ?  Let  him  give  tis  something  Hkc 
a  gentleman,  and  we'll  whisht  as  much  as  he  pleases." 

"  Are  ye  tired  o'  ye'r  lives  ?  He's  like  a  madman  all 
night.     There's  notlien  for  ye." 

"  D'ye  hear  what  he  says,  as  if  it  was  to  a  beggarmai' 
he'd  be  talken  ?  Go  along  in — take  your  head  out  o'  that. 
Remmy,  if  you  love  it.  Nothen  for  us  ! — Take  your  he.^T 
out  o'  that  again!  if  you  haven't  a  mind  to  lave  it  aft(  i 
you — and  no  great  prize  'twould  be  lo  the  man  that  won!; 
get  it  in  lose  afther  you,  either." 

"  It  may  be  a  very  bad  one,"  said  Remmy  O'Lone,  "ar 
an  ill-looking  one  enough  may  be,  but  I'd  look  a  da' 
droller  widout  it  for  all  that." 

"  AVell,  an'  are  we  to  get  nothen  for  the  Wran  ?  1 
that  the  way  of  it  ?  Come,  bcJy?,  one  groan  for  the  o' 
miser — " 

"  Whisht !  agin  !     0  boys,  for  shame  !     Well,  aisy 
while  and  I'll  see  what's  to  be  done.     But  don't  make  ; 
noise  for  your  lives,  for  he  didn't  lave  his  room  yet." 

Remmy  withdrew  his  head  from  the  Avindow,  replace 
the  newspapers,  and  walked  in  a  meditative  way  along  : 
dark  flagged  hall  leading  to  many  of  the  principal  sleepiii,^' 
chambers  of  the  old  mansion.  He  paused  near  one  of  the 
doors,  and  after  many  gestures  of  agitation  and  distress,  lie 
tapped  softly  with  the  knuckle  of  his  forefinger  upon  the 
centre  panel,  bending  his  ear  toward  the  key-hole  to  a?certain 
jis  m'leh  as  possible  of  the  effect  which  his  intrusion  pro- 
duced. 

'*  Who's  there?"  was  asked  in  a  tone  of  some  vexation. 

"Are  you  awake,  sir  ?"  said  Remmy,  in  a  soft  and  con- 
ciliating accent,  such  as  a  man  might  use  in  making  ac- 
quaintance with  a  fierce  mastiff. 

"  If  1  were  asleep,  do  you  think  I'd  ask  the  question, 
Remmy  ?" 

"  Wisha  then,  no,  surely,  sir,"  said  the  man,  "  I  dun 
know  what  came  over  me  to  ask  my  question." 


120  THE  HALF  SIR. 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter  now  ? 

"  Come  to  see  jou  they  are,  sir." 

"  Who,  man?"  was  asked  in  some  little  alarm. 

"  The  Wreii-boys,  sir." 

"  The  Wren-boys !" 

*'  Yes,  sir,  in  regard  o'  Saint  Stephen." 

"  The  Wren-boys  come  to  see  me  in  regard  of  Saint 
Stephen  !"  was  repeated  in  a  slow  and  bewildered  tone. 

At  the  same  time  the  party  Avithout,  a  little  impatient  at 
Eeinmy's  delay,  recommenced  their  noisy  harmony — 

"  The  Wran — ihe  Wran,  the  Icwfj  of  all  birds, 
St.  Stephen's  dm/  was  caught  in,  the  furze, 
Although  he's  little " 

The  strange  disturbance  seemed  to  aggravate  the  wrath 

of  the  secluded  tenant  of  the  chamber •"  What's  all  this 

din,  you  ruffian  ?"  he  said  to  llemmy  in  a  furious  tone. 

"  Themselves  that's  singing  it,  sir." 

"  What  ?  who  are  they,  sir  ?" 

"  The  Wran-boys." 

*'  The  Wren -boys  again  !  Who  are  the  Wren-boys?  what 
the  plague  do  they  come  clattering  their  old  pans  and  kettles 
here  for?     What  do  they  want,  Remmy?" 

"  Money  I  believe,  sir,  and  liquor." 

"  ]\Ioney  and  liquor  !      From  whom,  pray  ?" 

"  E'tlien  from  your  honour — sure  'tisn't  from  the  likes  o' 
me  they'd  be  expecten  it  ?" 

"  Why,  are  they  creditors  of  ours,  Eemmy  ?" 

"  0  not  they,  sir,  one  of  'em — sure  yourself  knows  we 
owe  no  money.  But  they  vvant  a  little  by-way  of  a  com- 
pliment in  regard  o'  Saint  Stephen  ?" 

"  Saint  Stephen !  Why,  what  the  mischief,  I  ask  you 
again,  have  I  to  do  with  Saint  Stephen  ?" 

"  Nothen,  sure,  sir,  only  this  being  the  day,  whin  all  the 
boys  o'  the  place  go  about  that  Avay,  with  the  wran,  the 
king  of  all  birds,  sir,  as  they  say,  (bekays  wanst  when  all 


THE  HALF  SIR.  121 

the  birds  wanted  to  choose  a  king,  an'  they  said  thej'd  have 
the  bird  that  would  Hy  highest,  the  aigle  flew  higher  than 
any  of  'era,  till  at  last  whin  he  couldn't  fly  an  inch  higher, 
a  little  rogU3  of  a  wran  that  was  a-hide  under  his  wing,  took 
a  fly  above  him  a  piece  and  was  ci'owned  king  of  the  aigle 
an'  all,  sir,)  tied  in  the  middle  o'  the  holly  that  way,  you 
see,  sir,  by  the  leg  that  is.  An  old  custom,  sir.  They 
hunted  it  this  mornen,  and  sto^^ed  it  with  black-thorn  sticks 
in  regard  o'  Saint  Stephen.  That's  because  he  was  stoned 
be  the  Turks  himself,  sir,  there's  a  great  while  there  sence. 
With  streamers  and  ribbins  flyen  about  it.  Be  the  leg  they 
tie  it  in  the  middle  o'  the  bush  within.  An'  they  sing  that 
song  that  way  for  the  gentlemen  to  give  them  a  trate,  as  it 
were,  '  Get  up,  ould  'oman,  an'  give  uz  a  trate," — or,  '  get 
up — fair  ladies — ' — oi' — '  we  hope  your  honour,'  as  the  case 
may  be,  all  in  regard  o'  Saint  Stephen.  And  they  dressed 
out  in  ribbins,  with  music  an'  things.  Stoned  be  the  Turks 
he  was.  Saint  Stephen,  long  ago.  Bad  manners  to  'em  (au' 
sure  whcre's  the  good  o'  wishen  'em  what  they  have  before  ?) 
wherever  they  aie,  for  so  doen.     Iss  indeed,  sir." 

"  So  I  am  to  understand  from  you  that  a  number  of 
young  men  come  to  demand  money  from  me,  because  they 
got  up  this  morning  and  hunted  a  little  wren,  tied  it  in  the 
middle  of  a  holly  bush,  and  stuck  a  parcel  of  ribbons  on  the 
boughs.     Is  that  the  utmost  extent  of  their  claim  on  me  ?'* 

"  0  then.  Lord  help  uz  !"  said  liemmy,  greatly  perplexed 
— "  if  one  was  to  go  to  the  rights  o'  the  matter,  that  vvay, 
sarrow  a  call  more  have  they  to  you,  I  b'licve.  sir." 

"  Well,  then,  let  those  gentlemen  take  their  departure  as 
soan  as  they  please.  They  shall  seek  their  reward  else- 
where, for  it  is  au  exploit  which  1  am  incapable  of  appre- 
ciating." 

"  0  sir,  sure  you  wouldn't  send  them  away  without  any 
thing,  to  di-grace  us  ?" 

"  Go  along,  sir,  and  do  as  you  are  directed." 

*MVell,  well,  to  be  sure,  see  what  this  is,"  Eemmy 
6 


122  THE  HALF  SIR. 

O'Lonc  muttered  in  great  distress,  as  he  paced  reluctantly 
along  the  hall,  revolving  in  his  mind  the  manner  in  which 
he  should  most  palatably  announce  this  disagreeable  intel- 
ligence to  tlie  crowd  without.  They  were  preparing  to 
renew  the  chorus  wvhen  he  opened  the  massive  hall-door, 
and  proceeded  to  address  them.  As  his  master  had  not 
permitted  him  to  gratify  his  auditors  in  the  substantial  way, 
Remmy  thought  the  least  he  might  do,  was  to  take  what 
fusal. 
liberties  he  pleased  with  the  firm  and  language  of  the  re- 

"  Boys,"  said  he,  "•  j\Ir.  Hamond  is  in  bed,  sick,  an'  he 
desired  me  to  tell  ye  that  he  was  very,  very  sorry  intirely 
that  he  had  nothcn  to  give  ye.  He  desired  his  compliments, 
an'  he's  very  sorry  intirely." 

"  I  knew  he  was  a  main  wretch  !"  exclaimed  the  wren 
boy — "  He  a  Cromwaylian — he  Bag-an'-Bun  !  Bag  an' 
baggage !   0,  'pon  my  word,  he's  a  great  neger." 

"  Houl  your  tongue,  I  tell  you,  Terry  Lenigan,"  said 
Eemmy.     "  Don't  anger  me,  I'd  advise  you." 

"  Bcmmy,  would  you  answer  one  question,"  said  Terry, 
"an'  we'll  be  off.     Who  is  it  milks  Mr.  Hamond's  cows?" 

To  understand  the  point  of  tliis  query,  it  is  necessary  the 
reader  should  be  informed  that,  in  consequence  of  Mr.  Ha- 
mond's allowing  no  dairy  woman  a  place  in  his  establish- 
ment, whicli  was  solely  composed  of  Remmy  and  his  old 
mother,  a  filse  and  invidious  report  had  been  circulated  that 
the  office  alluded  to  in  the  last  speech  (which  in  Ireland  is 
looked  upon  as  exclusively  womanish  and  unworthy  of  the 
dignity  of  man,)  was  fulOlled  by  no  less  a  personage  than 
the  redoubtable  Rennny  O'Lone  himself.  This  disgraceful 
charge,  though  fHcquently  and  indignantly  rebutted,  was  tlie 
more  maliciously  persevered  in,  as  it  was  found  to  answer 
its  chief  object  not  the  less  effectively — that  of  irritating  the 
temper  of  its  subject,  and  furnishing  the  spectators  with 
what  Hubbes  would  call  a  spectacle  exceeilingly  gratifying 
to  their  vanity — a  man  in  a  state  of  comically  passiouato 


THE  HALF  SIR.  123 

excitation.    It  lost  nothing  of  its  usual  force  by  its  total  un- 
ex])ecteclness  at  the  present  moment. 

liemmy  plunged  forward  toward  the  speaker,  theft  re 
mained  fixed  for  a  few  moments  in  an  attitude  minative  ol 
offence — the  consunmiation  of  his  desires  beiug  checked  by 
a  rapid  and  almost  involuntary  reflection  on  the  little  glory 
he  would  be  likely  to  reap  from  an  engagement  in  wliicli 
the  odds  would  be  so  awfully  against  him.  Then  suddenly 
recollecting  himself,  he  stood  erect  putling  his  little  finger 
knuckle  between  his  lips,  and  blew  a  whislle  so  slirill  and 
so  loud,  that  the  echoes  of  the  broken  hills  which  surrounded 
the  castle, — and  in  the  fine  phrase  of  the  Spanish  poet, 
stood  aloft  in  their  giant  stature,  ruffling  their  foreheads 
against  the  morning  sun,*  returned  the  unwonted  sounds  in 
an  hundred  varied  tones.  This  was  not  the  response,  how- 
ever, which  liemmy  ambitioned,  so  much  as  the  yelling  of 
a  leash  of  beagles,  who  presently  made  their  appearance, 
though  not  in  time  to  do  any  considerable  damage  amongst 
the  aggressors,  who  retreated  iu  double  quick  time,  making 
such  a  din  as  no  power  of  language  that  the  writer  pos- 
sesses could  possibly  convey  to  the  reader. 

"  I'll  not  be  able  to  stand  this  long,  mother,"  said 
Remmy,  as  he  returned  to  the  kitchen,  where  old  Minny 
O'Lone  was  quietly  seated  by  the  breakfast-table,  making 
as  rapid  progress  as  her  toothless  jaws  would  permit  her 
to  do,  through  the  reeking  mountain  of  sleek-coated  pota- 
toes and  virgin-white  milk  that  covered  the  board.  "  My 
master  an  I'll  never  agree  togeiher,  I  see  that;  an'  if  I  once 
get  my  character  from  him,  I'd  cut  my  stick  to-day  before 
to-morrow,  that's  what  I  would  See  what  this  is !  A 
decent,  well-commended,  notable  lad,  with  as  much  papera 
in  characters  in  me  chest  as  'nd  be  the  maken  of  a  grocer 
if  he  got  it  for  waste-paper — a  lad  with  as  strait  an'  round 
a  leg,"'  he  added,  extending  one  which  certainly  (aatwith- 

*  Este  Monte  eminente 

Que  arruga  al  Sol  en  seno  de  su  frente. 


124  THE  HALF  SIK. 

Standing  Remniv's  wig)  justified  the  commendation — "as 
ever  stood  in  wiiite  cotton  on  a  dickey — and  I  don't  care 
wlios^the  other  is — a  leg  that  never  thought  'twould  be 
iorced  to  mount  a  brogue  again  any  way ;  here  am  I  now 
in  tlie  flower  o'  my  days,  cook,  ostler,  groom,  herdsman, 
gorsoon,  gard'ner,  steward,  an'  all,  in  this  old  box  pitched 
ap  on  tlie  top  of  a  hill,  and  shaking  to  every  blast  o'  wind 
like  a  straw  upon  the  waters — as  bad  as  the  Darbyshire 
stone  that  me  master  an'  nieself  seen  once  in  onr  travels 
in  foreign  parts,  sarven  a  man  that  has  such  quare  ways — ■ 
disgraccn  himself  aa'  all  belongcu  to  him.  There'll  be  a 
holy  show  made  of  us  with  the  Wran-boys.     I  set  the  dogs 

after  'em — for ; hat's  more  of  it,  too.     Another  job  they 

give  me,  as  if  I  hadn't  enough." 

The  ringing  of  a  bell  cut  short  the  train  of  Remmy's  mur- 
mnrings. 

"  Tnat's  for  his  tay,  to  have  it  ready  for  him,"  said  he, 
stirring  the  fire  and  arranging  the  kettle,  "  if  he  wasn't  so 
sickly  (an'  a  body  doesn't  know  the  time  he'll  go) — an' 
there's  no  sayen  what  sort  of  a  will  he  has  made,  but  if 
Remmy  O'Lone  isn't  higii  in  the  sheepskin,  Mr.  Hamond 
is  not  the  man  he  ought  to  be.  Sure  he  has  no  rilations, 
an'  if  he  had  itself  what  are  they,  only  as  you  may  say  the 
casual  gif'ts  o'  forten,  whereas,  a  good  sarvant  is  a  man's 
own  choice,  that  ought  to  be  esteemed  according." 

"  How  do  you  know  will  the  master  ever  die  ?"  said  the 
mother. 

"  Eh  ?" 

**  How  do  you  know  is  it  himself  that's  there  at  all  ? 
When  he  got  the  sickness  that  was  goen  last  summer,  by 
being  so  mooch  in  the  houses  o'  the  poor  people,  do  you 
know  what  I  done?  I  tuk  a  bit  o'  the — but  it's  a  sacrct 
— the  herb  they  say  that  tells  for  life  or  death  by  boiling  it 
in  a  skillet,  and  if  it  turns  green,  the  man  recovers,  if  black, 
he  dies  surely — an'  I  put  it  down  here  on  the  lire  about 
the  dead  o'  uight,  when  ye  were  all  in  bed,  an'  he  was  just 


THE  HALF  SIR.  125 

drappen  off  in  his  crisis,  despaired  of  be  the  doctors,  and  I 
looked  into  the  skiilet  by'u-bj,  and  save  tiiere  it  was,  uc 
cliaiige  at  all  in  it,  only  just  the  same  colour  it  was  when 
I  put  it  down." 

"  Oil,  that's  all  nonsense — poll !  that's  ye're  shoopersti- 
shious,"  said  Eemniy,  whose  travels  with  his  master  had 
taught  him  to  despise  the  legends  of  his  native  soil,  at  least 
in  outward  appearance  and  in  the  day  time.  "  If  it  wasn't 
himself,  do  you  think  he'd  be  so  wild  'when  he  heard  o' 
Miss  Emily's  niisforteu  ?  Oh,  the  poor  lady  !  Ah,  motlicr, 
that  was  the  real  lady — Heaven  rjst  her,  this  day  !  'Twas 
she  that  had  the  open  hand  to  tlie  poor  servant — an'  she'd 
slip  it  into  your  hand  as  soft  as  if  she  didn't  feel  herself 
given  it  into  your  hand  that  way,  an'  she  looken  another 
way,  or  may  be  smilen  at  you  an'  Siiyen,  '  Eemmy,  I  gev 
you  a  dale  o"  throuble  this  while  back  ;'  or,  '  Eemmy, 
here's  a  keejisake  for  you,'  with  a  voice  that  would  raise 
the  very  cockles  o'  ye'r  heart  with  its  sweetness.  And 
Buch  a  tine  proud  step  with  her  for  all !  An'  the  way  she 
used  to  walk  along,"  Piemmy  continued,  standing  up  and 
forgetting  his  half-peeled  potato  in  his  enthusiasm,  v/liile  ha 
imitated  the  action  he  described — "  spiingen  off  the  ball 
of  her  little  foot,  and  looked  out  from  under  the  eyebrows 
as  if  it  was  oat  of  the  clouds  she  come.  An'  to  think, 
mother,"  he  added,  standing  erect  and  staring  on  the  old 
woman,  "to  think  that  all  that  should  go  ior  nothing! 
The  match  made — the  wedden  fixed — the  day  coom  a'mosfc 
all  but  one — the  favours  given  out — the  gloves  sent  round 
— the  bridecake  baked — the  dresses  both  for  herself  and 
himself  finished  off — the  music  ready — the  priest  at  hand 
— the  frinds  convanient — and  hoop  !  whisk !"  Remmy  con- 
tini;ed,  slapping  both  hands  together  with  a  loud  report, 
and  then  tossing  them  up  to  their  furthest  extent  over  his 
head  to  express  suddenness — "  all  gone !  as  you'd  puff  the 
down  off  a  cluck  !*  Slap  !  as  if  you  rubbed  your  eyes  au' 
*  The  seed-bii'l  ol  -i  cominou  weed  so  called 


126  THE  HALF  SIR 

saw  the  saa  where  that  mountahi  is  overright  us.  V»"hack! 
no  more  sign  o'  the  wliole  affair  than  of  a  sperrit  that  'ud 
vanish  you'd  think  !  She  was  a  high  lady  in  her  time- 
low  enough  she  lies  now.  Tlie  pace  an'  the  light  of  lieavea 
lies  with  her  where  she  lies,  for  ever !" 

And  having  nnbnvtliened  his  heart  by  this  panegyric, 
Iicmmy  resumed  his  place  and  his  toil  at  the  breakfast-table. 


CHAPTER  II. 

T  know  not  -what  the  matter  is,  but  I  am  grown  very  kind  and  am 
f/iends  willi  you — You  have  given  me  that  will  kill  me  quickly,  but 
ill  go  home  and  live  as  loiig  as  1  can. 

— Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

Detesting  from  our  hearts  all  unnecessary  mystery,  which 
is  no  less  repulsive  in  a  narrative,  we  apprehend,  than  in 
the  transactions  of  social  life,  Ave  shall  proceed  to  lay  before 
the  reader,  a  few  events  in  the  life  of  the  proprietor  of 
Castle  Haraond,  in  the  course  of  which,  he  will  find  an 
explana  tion  of  the  alhisions  contained  in  Rommy's  last  oration. 

It  will  bo  ncedfnl,  moreover,  that  we  take  the  reader  for 
a  short  time  out  of  Munster,  the  general  scene  of  action 
which  we  have  selected  for  the  conduct  of  these  histories  ; 
promising  him,  that  as  we  tread  but  tenderly  on  other  ground, 
the  period  of  our  absence  shall  be  limited  to  as  brief  a  space 
as  may  sufiice  to  make  him  comprehend  the  chain  of  the 
story. 

Tiiere  are  no  classes  of  beings,  either  in  the  social  or  na- 
tural world,  so  distinctly  separated  one  from  the  otlier, 
that  an  interuicdiate  species  may  not  be  observed,  partak- 
ing of  the  nature  of  both,  and  generally  combining  their 
least  tolerable  peculiarities.  Those  amphibious  monsters  are 
generally  found,  in  social  life,  to  coiisis!;  of  the  vain  and 
the  vulgar :  and  I  believe  there  is  no  country  iu  the  world 


THE  HALF  SIR.  127 

where  a  dass  of  persons  may  not  be  observed  who  stand 
tliiis  between  humble  and  "  respectable"  life — drawing  the 
external  fopperies  and  gaudiness  of  the  one  over  the  coarse- 
ness of  the  other,  and  hanging  like  the  link  of  an  iil-favcnred 
chain  between  the  two  diamonds,  simplicity  and  refinement. 
Disowned  by  the  class  to  Avhich  they  would  aspire,  and 
disliked  by  that  which  they  have  deserted,  these  people 
would  lead  very  miserable  lives,  if  it  did  not  happen  pro\  i- 
dentially  enough  that  they  are  burthened  with  no  inconve- 
nient quantity  of  feeling,  and  find  in  the  gratification  of 
their  vanity,  a  happiness  more  than  commensurate  to  the 
mortification  which  they  ought  to  receive  from  the  repul- 
sive scorn  of  those  above,  and  the  insolent  reproaches  of 
those  below  them.  In  this  genus  may  be  classed  the  long 
array  of  coarse  foces  that  one  finds  astray  in  Leghorn  bon- 
nets— the  splay  feet  in  silk  stockings — the  half- educated 
pretenders  in  conversation,  who  steer  a  clear  course  between 
the  natural  wit  of  the  lower  and  the  fine  taste  and  ac- 
quirement of  the  higher  orders — the  shock  heads  that  have 
discarded  the  lowly  felt,  and  glisten  in  beaver — all,  in  short, 
that  is  tawdry,  and  coarse,  and  flippant  in  society. 

It  does  not  always  happen,  nevertheless,  that  the  indi- 
viduals whom  fortune,  not  choice,  has  thrown  into  this 
class,  are  totally  destitute  of  sensibility,  and  when  the  con- 
trary is  the  case,  the  reader  (possessing  a  due  proportion 
himself)  may  easily  imagine  how  much  more  acute  it  is 
rendered  by  the  absence  of  sympathy  consequent  on  its 
very  rarity.  This  was  the  situation,  in  early  life,  of  the 
hero  of  our  tale,  and  it  was  rendered  still  more  distressing 
by  the  natural  disposition  of  the  man,  Avhich  was  so  mor- 
bidly sensitive,  that  it  would  have  required  much  care,  and 
a  vigorous  exertion  of  mind  in  a'iy  station,  to  save  him 
from  the  perils  of  disgust  and  misanthropy. 

The  nearest  relative  of  his  own  that  Eugene  Hamond 
had  been  ever  acquainted  with,  was  an  old  man — a  second- 
cousiu  of  his   father's — who  returned    to  his  native  islo 


128  -      THE  HALF  SIS. 

(with  fi  fortune  made  of  sugar  nnd  tobacco  in  tlie  Illinois), 
just  in  time  to  see  poor  Hugh  made  an  orphan,  and  to 
grant  the  dying  request  of  his  father,  that  lie  would  see  the 
child  taken  care  of^ — a  promise  which  he  made  with  an  ill 
grace  and  performed  with  a  worse.  This  old  fellow  was 
one  of  those  selfishly  generous  beings  who  confer  a  favour 
for  their  own  sakcs  alone — and  while  they  mingle  so  much 
ungracious  rudeness  with  their  lihcrality,  as  to  make  it  a 
pain,  not  a  pleasure  to  the  receiver,  yet  look  for  as  warm 
and  abundant  a  show  of  gratitude  as  if  the  gift  were  not 
entirely  a  selfish  action.  A  show  of  gratitude,  we  say,  for 
as  it  is  a  gaudy  vanity  which  prompts  the  benefit,  so  an  os- 
tentatious gratitude  will  amply  suflice  to  repay  it.  The  old 
man  posscs-ed  not  the  silent  feeling  of  generosity  in  him- 
self, and  had  not  faith  in  the  silent  gratitude  of  his  yoinig 
protege.  The  shy  temper  of  the  latter  recoiled  from  tlic 
blazonry  of  a'Vejtion  which  was  thus  requiretl  from  him — 
and  moreover  felt  it  wearisome  and  annoying  to  be  von- 
stantly  reminded  of  benefits  which  had  heen  conferred  on 
him  at  an  age  when  he  was  incapable  of  appreciating  the 
consequences  of  laying  himself  under  an  obligation,  and  of 
course  could  exercise  no  election  in  the  matter.  Old 
Hamond  had  been  an  enthusiast  in  his  youth,  and  had  left 
home  with  the  hope  of  procuring  in  a  distant  land  the 
means  of  rendering  himself  respected  and  beloved  in  his 
own.  No  person  could  have  set  out  with  kinder  or  more 
affectionate  intentions — but  their  performance  was  fixed  tor 
a  period  too  remote  (as  is,  we  fear,  only  too  frequently  the 
case  with  young  adventunrs);  he  conceived  himself  entitled, 
on  the  strength  of  his  ultimate  designs,  to  omit  all  those 
intermediate  and  minor  attentions  to  his  friends  at  home, 
which  duty,  gratitude,  and  atfection  demanded  from  him. 

*'  It  is  no  matter,"  he  would  say  to  himself,  when  the 
post  brought  him  a  letter  full  of  gi  ntle  murmurings  and 
aifectionate  reproaches  from  a  mother  who  loved  him  well, 
and  whom  he  loved  in  turn,  taxing  liim  with  a  long  scries 


THE  HALF  SIR.  129 

of  letters  unacknowledged,  and  fondness  apparently  forgot- 
ten— "  It  is  no  matter,  I  am  getting  on  rapilly  here.  'Twill 
be  only  a  few  years  more,  and  I'll  Iiave  a  fortune  made  here 
andt'ien  I'll  show  my  mother  that  she  mistakes  my  character; 
that  it  is  not  for  myself  only  I  am  toiling — and  thnt  she  has 
not  been  forgotten,  as  she  supposes.  I'll  return  to  her  with 
the  means  of  iucreasing  her  comfort,  and  that  will  be  a 
better  proof  of  my  love  than  a  mere  string  of  empty  words, 
which  can  answer  no  good  purpose  but  that  of  putting 
halt-a-crown  into  the  king's  pocket.  Besides,  I  will  answer 
this  letter  at  any  rate  (o-morrow."  And  then  he  would 
apply  himself  more  vigorously  to  business  than  ever — he 
would  overwork  his  slaves — seek  new  connexion*,  and  swifter 
means  of  profit — new  wealth  would  flow  iu — his  hope 
would  become  brighter — his  wishes  would  swell  with  his 
prosperity — he  would  no  longer  content  himself  with  the 
prospect  of  rendering  his  parents  comfortable  in  their  sta- 
tion— he  would  lift  them  above  it.  They  would  become 
the  euvy  of  the  country  side.  His  father  should  be  a  gen- 
tleman and  his  mother  a  lady.  He  would  buy  out  Mr. 
Moore's  estate  (a  ruined  mortgaged  property,)  and  give  it 
to  his  father.  They  should  cut  the  Kyans  out  of  the  field, 
and  distance  the  Heaveners — the  most  rapidly  improving 
Palatines  in  the  country.  In  the  midst  of  these  da)  -dreams 
a  letter  of  fresh  complaints  would  appear  like  a  spectre  be- 
fore his  eyes — to  pass  away  and  be  forgotten  in  a  similar 
manner.  The  renewal  of  those  charges,  however,  could 
not  but  disturb  him  ;  and  while  he  could  not  shut  up  the 
ears  of  his  heart  to  the  reproaches  of  his  own  conscience,  he 
eudeavuurcd  to  shift  his  vexation  from  his  own  neglect,  to 
what  he  was  pleased  to  term  the  importunity  of  his  friends; 
and  making  as  much  account  of  his  intentions,  as  if  they 
wfcre  benefits  actually  conferred,  he  began  to  treat  those 
latter  with  much  ill-temper,  as  if  he  were  suffering  under 
some  considerable  injustice.  The  longer  he  delayed  writ- 
ing, the  more  impressed   he  became  with  the   belief  that 

6* 


130  THE  HALF  SIB. 

some  more  substantial  apology  than  a  mere  statement  of 
fixcts  would  be  required  from  him,  and  he  had  not  yet  con- 
tented himself  witli  the  extent  of  his  property.  All  com- 
nuinicatiou,  therefore,  shortly  ceased  between  tliem.  In  the 
selfishness  of  his  own  heart,  he  had  vilely  undervalued  the 
sterling  worth  of  human  nature  altogether ;  he  considered 
not  how  much  more  precious  to  the  heart  of  a  fond  mother 
would  be  one  token  of  aft'ection,  one  word,  one  remembrance 
from  an  absent  child,  than  if  he  could  pour  out  the  wealth 
of  all  the  nations  at  her  feet. 

He  did  not  consider  this,  neither  did  it  once  occur  to  him 
that  any  change  could  have  taken  place  at  home,  wiiile  time 
was  laying  its  white  hand  upon  his  own  liead  in  a  foreign 
clime.  He  was  astonished,  therefore,  to  find,  on  returning 
(with  a  fortune  sufiicient  even  to  satisfy  his  own  longing) 
to  his  native  village,  that  while  he  had  been  revohing  a 
fine  scheme  for  the  elevation  of  his  parents,  death  had  laid 
them  low  in  the  grave.  They  had  died  in  want,  and  lel't 
their  son  no  blessing. 

What  was  he  now  to  do  with  the  heap  of  yellow  trash 
which  he  had  been  forty  years  in  amassing  ?  It  lay,  a  dead 
weight,  upon  his  hands,  Mr.  Moore,  the  Ryans,  and  the 
Heaveners,  the  objects  of  his  love  and  his  envy,  Mere  alike 
vanished  from  the  face  of  the  soil— and  he  turned  in  disgust 
and  impatience  from  the  crowd  of  new  faces  that  stared 
upon  him  from  the  haunts  of  his  boyhood.  The  only  one 
of  his  old  companions  that  remained  uas  the  father  of  our 
hero,  and  he  tarried  no  longer  than  just  sufficed  to  tell  hiin 
the  manner  of  his  parents' death,  and  to  place  in  his  hands 
the  child  he  was  about  to  leave  otherwise  utterly  desti- 
tute. 

This  little  relic  of  his  father's  house  was  uot  prized  by 
the  old  man  so  highly  as  might  have  been  expected.  It  was 
a  long  time  before  old  H amend  could  bring  himself  to  look 
upon  the  boy  in  any  n.ore  tolerable  light  than  that  of  a 
usur[jer,  who  had  sr.dc'cnly  darted  upon  him,  and  snatched 


I — 


THE  HALF  SIR.  131 

away  tlie  prize  wliicli  he  had  treasured  up  for  dearer  friends. 
Tn  the  process  of  time,  liowever,  t!ie  child  •won  somewliat 
r.]jOii  his  regard  ;  and  we  have  already  seen  tiie  nii'.nncr  in 
wliicli  his  awa]\ened  kindness  began  to  expand  itself.  His 
still  unextinguished  vanity,  moreover,  had  a  large  share  in 
the  motives  which  occasioned  Eugene's  good  fortune.  As 
he  could  no  longer  make  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  his  dead 
friends,  he  determined  to  do  as  much  as  his  fortune  would 
enable  him  to  accomplish  in  that  way,  with  respect  to  his 
proteg^.  But  he  took  especial  care  that  no  benefit  was 
ever  conferred,  without  making  the  latter  as  perfectly  sen- 
sible as  words  could  render  him,  of  its  extent  and  munifi- 
cence ;  and  while  he  thus  dragged,  as  it  were,  from  the 
heart  of  the  latter,  a  timid  and  hesitating  expression  of  the 
ardent  gratitude  Avhich  he  felt,  he  was  naturally  dissati -fied 
with  the  faltering  manner  of  the  boy,  whose  excessive  ti- 
midity of  disposition  rendered  him  very  unwilling  to  enfer 
into  a  perfect  confidence  and  intimacy  with  a  nature  so  cor.rfe, 
so  ungentle,  and  so  unlike  liis  own.  What  we  are  endea- 
vouring, and  very  faintly,  to  convey  to  the  reader  in  naira- 
tive,  may,  however,  be  much  more  clearly  laid  before  him, 
by  transcribing  a  scene  which  took  place  between  our  hero 
and  his  benefactor,  on  an  occasion  when  the  latter  formed 
the  resolution  of  removing  to  Dublin  for  a  few  years — as 
much  (but  this  he  reserved  to  himself)  for  the  purpose  of 
relieving  his  own  eyes  from  the  sight  of  objects  which  were 
to  him  all  tinged  with  the  gloom  of  some  mournful  i-ecol- 
Icction,  as  with  the  intention  of  comiilcting  the  educatiou 
of  his  young  heir  and  relative. 

He  had  been  meditating,  during  the  morning,  on  the 
benefit  which  the  latter  would  receive  from  the  measure  lie 
was  about  to  adopt,  and  hr d  placed  the  gratification  of  his 
own  wishes  so  much  out  of  sigiit,  that  he  presently  per- 
suaded himself  that  nothing  but  Eugene's  advantage  was 
influencing  him  in  the  step  ;  and  he  was  in  conscfiuenco 
wrapt  into  a  perfect  admiration  of  his  own  numificcuca 


132  THE  HALF  Sia. 

when  the  youth  entered  the  room,  hi,^  face  glowing  with 
exercise,  and  a  small  liiirly  and  ball  in  his  hand.  As  is 
generally  the  case  with  all  morose  people  when  they  have 
brought  themselves  to  resolve  upon  a  liberal  action,  his  heart 
warmed  toward  the  object  of  it,  and  he  held  out  his  hand 
with  a  smile  of  readier  kindness  than  usual,  and  beckoned 
him  toward  the  sofa,  where  he  sat  in  his  long  brown  great- 
coat and  Leghorn  hat,  with  a  Havanuah  cigar  half-burnt 
in  his  mouth. 

"  Come  here,  Hugh,  my  lad — give  me  your  hand,  sir. 
Ha ! — what  have  you  been  at,  child  ?  You're  like  my  poor 
mother  in  the  eyes,  I  guess,  you  are." 

"  Playing  goal,  sir,  I  was — with  little  Eemmy  O'Lone." 

"  Remmy  O'Lone  !  Fie,  you  grovelling  little  anini;  1, 
that's  no  companion  for  you.  Was  that  what  I  have  been 
toiling  and  moiling  for  these  forty  years,  scraping  and 
saving,  up  early  and  late,  working  and  wearing  tlie  flesh 
off  my  bones,  and  all  for  your  benefit.     Eh  ?  sir  ?" 

A  pause. 

"  To  have  you  spend  your  time  playing  goal  with 
Remmy  O'Lone  !  Come  here,  Hugh.  Is  there  anything 
you  are  in  want  of  now  ?" 

"  N — 0 — no  !  sir,"  said  Hngh,  hesitating  between  his 
fear  of  giving  offence  by  a  refusal  and  accepting  an  unne- 
cessary obligation  ;  for  youth  as  he  was,  hu  had  already 
begun  to  discover  the  inconveniences  of  the  latter  coiave. 

"  Because  if  you  do,  Hugh,  you  know  you  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  command  me.  What  have  I  all  this  wealta 
for,  but  for  your  use  ?  What  have  I  been  struggling  and 
labouring  for  during  my  whole  life  but  for  your  benefit  ? 
And  you  are  welcome  to  it,  Hugli,  as  welcome  as  if  you 
were  my  own  child,  for  you  are  a  good  lad,  Hugh,  you  are." 

"I  declare — I'm  greatly  obliged  to  yon,  uncle " 

"  Pah  !  now,  that's  what  I  hate  !  Do  you  tiiink  'tis 
thanks  Pm  looking  fur,  sir?  Come  here  to  me,  what  do 
do  you  think  Pm  going  to  do  for  you  now,  guess  ?" 


THE  HALF  SIR.  133 

Hngh  looked  pained  and  puzzled. 

"  You  are  now  lifteeu  years  of  age — I  liUva  expended 
more  money  ou  your  edication  than  was  «ver  spent  in  tlie 
raisi7ig  of  any  of  your  family  before,  i  have  given  more 
for  books  and  other  notmis  for  you  than  would  have  bouf^ht 
a  bunch  o'  niggars.  Now  I'm  going  to  take  you  to  Dublin 
to  finish  your  edication,  sIick-7-i(/ht-awui/." 

The  blood  rushed  into  Hugh's  cheek,  and  he  was  about 
to  utter  an  exclamation  of  gratitude  and  delight — but  re- 
collecting how  he  had  been  checked  for  doing  so  the  moment 
before,  he  was  silent. 

Old  Hamoud  stared  upon  him.  "Why,  you  don't  seem 
to  like  this,  Hugh,  you  don't." 

"  0  yes,  sir — I  do,  indeed — but " 

"But  what?" 

*'  Nothing,  sir." 

"  Nothing  ! — Are  these  my  thanks  ?  No  matter.  Very 
well,  sir.  No,  I  won't  hear  anything  from  you  now.  Go 
along  to  your  own  room.     Very  well,  Hugh  !" 

Too  delicate  to  expose  to  the  possibility  of  a  repulse  the 
warm  feeling  of  gratitude  which  he  Avas  conscious  of  pos- 
sessing, Eugene  left  the  room  to  fret  and  chafe  in  the  soli- 
tude of  his  own  chamber — blaming  himself  for  his  auk- 
ward  manner — full  of  agony  at  the  thought  of  the  cold  im- 
piessi(m  which  he  left  ou  his  uncle's  mind — and  never  once 
dreaming  of  questioning  a  statement  which  had  been  con- 
stantly dinned  into  his  tar,  from  the  time  when  first  that 
organ  became  capable  of  exercising  its  function — that  his 
advantage  was  the  cause  and  not  the  consequence  of  all 
his  uncle's  toil  and  labour.  His  uncle  was  not  so  blind  to 
the  distinction,  but  he  had  shut  his  eyes  to  it  a  long  time, 
and  at  length  Lc^an  to  believe  that  it  no  longvr  existed. 

Scenes,  similar  in  their  tone  and  issue  to  the  above, 
ivere  almost  of  daily  occurrence  during  their  residence  ia 
the  metropolis.  Had  Eugene  fell  towards  his  benei'actor 
ilie  iuditforence  with  which  he  was  constantly  charged,  he 


134  "  THE  HALF  SIB. 

miglit  have  led  a  pleasant,  easy  life ;  but  liis  temper  be- 
coming every  day  more  and  more  morbid  and  irritable  by 
the  reciirrauce  of  those  annoying  demel^s,  left  him  not  a 
moment's  peace.  Very  often,  too,  he  imputed  to  bis  uncle 
an  acuteness  of  feeling  equal  to  bis  own,  and  estimating 
the  resentment  of  the  former  at  finding  or  believing  him- 
self treated  with  ingratitude,  by  what  his  own  would  be  in 
a  similar  case,  he  thus  learned  to  make  pity  for  the  old 
man  constitute  at  least  half  his  misery  ;  a  thing  that  he 
would  not  have  done  had  he  been  able  to  see  that  old  man's 
heart.  By  some  means,  however,  it  unfortunately  hap- 
pened that  the  two  relatives  never  happened  to  fall  into  tlie 
same  state  of  feeUng  at  the  same  time.  When  Eugene 
would  come  into  his  uncle's  presence  in  a  morning,  after 
meditating,  through  a  long  and  feverish  night,  on  the  part 
he  had  acted  in  some  quarrel  the  evening  before,  and  forc- 
ing himself  at  length  into  the  conviction  that  the  fault  lay 
on  his  own  side — that  his  uncle  was,  as  he  had  often  de- 
clared himsilf  to  be,  the  best  possible  uncle  tliat  nephew 
ever  had ;  when  he  entered  the  room,  we  say,  i.i  the  morn- 
ing, with  a  penitent  face,  and  heart  anxious  to  uuburthen 
itself  at  the  feet  of  his  benefactor,  he  would  be  surprised 
by  some  dry,  every-day  observation  ;  or  perhaps  some 
jest,  which  showed  him  that  the  affair  which  lay  so  heavily 
upon  his  mind,  and  heated  and  broke  his  slumbers,  was  as 
totally  forgotten  by  tlie  other,  as  if  they  had  parted  the 
night  before  the  best  friends  in  the  woi'ld.  The  next 
morning,  perhaps,  on  the  contrary,  when  he  would  enter  the 
breakfast-parlour  Avith  a  light  heart  and  merry  eye,  over- 
flowing with  love  for  his  uncle  and  fur  all  the  world,  he 
would  find  the  former  cold,  distant,  and  reserved — they 
would  join  hands  with  a  silent  stare — and  Eugene  would 
find  himself  compelled  to  eat  his  bread  once  more  in  the 
bitterness  of  dependence.  The  misuudorstanding  was  thus 
pioloni^eJ  to  agony. 
A  heavy,  dreary  chain  had  been  wound  about  the  young 


THE  HALF  SIR.  135 

man's  spirit,  wliich  he  toiled  and  toiled  to  rend  asunder,  but 
found  too  potent  for  las  strength.  Frequently,  in  tho 
ardour  of  his  indignant  heart,  -when  he  approached  that 
age  at  which  the  thirst  of  independence  begins  to  warm  in 
a  young  man's  breast,  the  idea  of  flinging  himself  abroad 
upon  the  world,  and  taking  his  fortunes  boldly  and  man- 
fully upon  his  own  unshackled  hands,  would  dart  across 
his  mind,  and  he  would  catch  at  it  with  all  the  elastic 
readiness  of  youthful  hope,  when  the  deep  and  real  ingra- 
titude of  the  stop,  all  his  uncle's  kindness  towards  him,  the 
actual  practical  benefits  he  had  conferred  upon  him,  would 
rush  in  a  mass  before  his  eyes,  and  make  him  blush  to 
think  that  he  had  for  an  instant  placed  his  merely  ab- 
stracted and,  perhaps,  peculiar  feelings  and  distresses  in 
opposition  to  them.  Besides,  his  benefiictor  was  now  de- 
clining fast  into  that  age  when  the  minute  attention  of  a 
really  affectionate  friend  is  most  required ;  and  even  if 
Eugene  could  be  base  enough  to  leave  him  to  meet  death 
in  loneliness  and  sorrow,  he  could  not  shake  ofl'  the  load  of 
obligations  which  had  already  been  cast  upon  him, 

"  Heaven,  that  sees  my  heart,"  he  would  frequently  ex- 
claim, pausing  and  extending  his  arms,  as  he  paced  his 
chamber  alone  in  agony  and  irresolution,  "  sees  that  it  is 
not  meanness  that  bindu  me  to  this  state  of  vile  depend- 
ence. But  I  am  caught  and  spell-bound.  The  trap  was 
laid  for  my  heart  before  it  had  ever  beat ;  and  until  I  can 
unravel  the  c>«iain  of  past  events  and  undo  all  that  has  been 
done,  I  must  content  myself  with  this  hideous  slavery. 
My  dependence  is  my  fate — it  is  the  A\ill  of  heaven,  immu- 
table and  irresistible,  as  much  as  my  orphanage  was,  and 
I  may  no  more  make  my  benefactor  7ioi  my  benefactor  now 
than  I  can  call  up  my  dead  parents  from  their  graves. 
Oh,  would  to  Heaven  I  could  have  exercised  a  choice  at 
tl'.e  time  when  he  first  meditated  the  first  favour  he  (;on- 
fened  upon  me.  Wlat  a  load  of  wretchedness  would  have 
becii  spared  us  both  ! ' 


1S6  '  THE  HALF  SIR. 

Neitlier  were  Eugene's  distresses  so  entirely  fanciful  or 
peculiar  as  he  was  willing  to  admit.  His  uncle,  in  a  rank 
above  tliat  in  which  he  was  born,  had  totally  miscalculated, 
In  his  simple  ignorance,  the  mere  common  expenseis  of  tl:e 
mode  of  life  in  which  he  had  placed  his  nephew.  He  had 
added  tip  with  a  slate  and  pencil  the  sums  which  it  would 
be  necessary  to  pay  for  schooling,  clothii;g,  and  absolute 
necessaries,  and  imagined  that  the  whole  affair  was  settled 
when  he  laid  apart  an  annual  sum  for  those  purposes.  But 
Eugene  soon  found  that  there  was  nuifh  more  required  to 
enable  him  to  appear  on  an  equality  with  his  new  com- 
panions. A  thousand  nameless  occasions  for  expense, 
which  his  mechanical  relative  could  not  anticii  ate  n.ir  even 
understand,  occnrred  every  day;  and  \^hi!e  old  Hamond 
was  constantly  murmuring  at  home  at  the  drain  which 
Eugene's  gentlemanly  lifj  was  opening  upon  his  wealth, 
the  latter  found  himself  deserted,  shunned,  cut  (that  is  the 
best  word  for  the  occasion)  by  all  the  young  men  into 
whose  society  he  was  thrown,  in  consequence  of  his  ina- 
bility to  mingle  in  and  forward  their  various  schemes  of 
recreation  and  anusement  in  hours  of  leisure.  He  could 
better  brook,  however,  to  glide  in  the  downcast  solitariness 
of  conscious  poverty  thruugh  the  ciowds  of  gay  and 
thouglitless  faces  that  peopled  this  (to  him)  novel  world, 
than  to  give  his  uncle  occasion  for  additional  censures — it 
never  once  occurring  to  him  that  this  habit  of  censuring 
was  the  joy  of  the  old  man's  life,  and  that,  in  truth,  no- 
thing could  give  him  greater  pleasure  than  to  have  Eugene 
acknowledge  his  dependence  by  ajjplying  to  him  for  assist- 
ance— as  nothing  was  more  calculated  to  sour  his  disposi- 
tion than  finding  himself  thus  compelled,  as  it  were,  to 
give  everything  from  himself,  as  though  it  were  a  matter 
of  course,  and  not  favour  or  generosity. 

Eugene  had,  however,  at  length  an  opportunity  of  plac- 
ing his  character  in  its  proper  light  before  the  eyes  of  his 
lUscle.     It  was  one  of  the  leading  foibles  (perhaps,  in  i\\\i 


; : :  --I 

TUE  HALF  Sin.  137 

instance,  we  sliould  more  correctly  say,  peculiarities)  of  the 
latter  to  entertain  a  most  unbounded  liorror  and  detesta- 
tion of  law,  in  whatever  shape  or  form  it  was  presented  to 
his  eyes— a  feeling  which  has,  of  late,  become  almost  na- 
tional in  certain  parts  of  Ireland.  This  weakness  was  in 
him  carried  to  so  extravagant  a  length  that,  during  his 
residence  in  the  Illinois,  being  menaced  with  an  action  by 
a  former  partner  of  liis  own  (a  prodigal,  worthless  wretch, 
from  whom  he  had  separated  himself  with  much  difficulty 
ind  with  great  loss),  on  the  ground  of  an  unequal  division  of 
property  at  the  dissohition  of  partnership,  and  a  conse- 
quent breach  of  contract,  he  had  bought  him  oft"  at  a  great 
price,  without  once  iuquiiing  into  the  law  of  the  case — • 
without  venturing  witltin  eyeshot  of  an  attorney,  a  race  of 
beings  whom  he  looked  upon  as  analogous  in  the  Ameri- 
can towns  to  the  rattle-snakes  in  their  wouds,  and  avoided 
v/ith  as  much  caution.  His  excessive  tinudity  on  this  head 
was  fi-equently  almost  ludicrous.  Although  lie  was,  on  all 
ordinary  occasions,  an  active,  stirring,  busthng  man,  with 
as  much  vigour,  strength  of  understanding,  and  foresight 
as  might  constitute  the  average  proportion  of  tliose  quali- 
ties among  men  of  business  in  a  similar  rank  of  lite,  he 
seemed,  when  once  phiced  even  by  his  fears  alone  within 
the  danger  of  a  lawsuit,  though  on  never  so  trivial  an  oc- 
C.ision,  to  be  sudd3nly  deserted  by  all  his  faculties ;  he 
wuuld  become  listless  and  silent  in  the  midst  of  his  daily 
occupations — his  heart  failed  him — his  spirit  flagged  and 
sunlv — he  would  mope  about  his  offices  like  a  spectre — - 
giving  absent  answers — speaking  in  a  soft,  whining  tune, 
and  staring  about  him  in  solitary  helplessness  of  as,iect. 
There  was  something  comically  pathetic  in  all  his  conduct 
on  these  occasions,  which,  while  it  made  his  best  lovers 
smile  in  their  own  despite,  compelled  his  very  slaves,  wlio 
were  accustomed  to  his  usual  severity  of  tone  and  gesture, 
to  look  upon  him  with  an  emotion  of  pity.  The  jjroiligata 
feliovv  of  whom  we  spake  was  not  long  in  finding  out  tiic 


J  38 


THE  HALF  SlU. 


undefended  side  of  his  partner's  character,  and  made,  aa 
we  have  said,  his  own  uses  of  the  discovery. 

Old  Hammond  was  tliiis  found,  one  evening,  by  his 
nephew,  wlio  had  just  returned  from  a  solitary  excursion 
to  Howth,  reclining,  as  usual,  with  one  leg  stretched  along 
the  sofa ;  a  small  rose-Avood  table  drawn  close  to  hiin,  on 
which  were  a  cigar,  a  lighted  candle,  a  glass  of  brandy- 
punch  but  little  diminished,  and  an  open  letter.  The  old 
man  was  leaning  back  in  his  seat  with  an  expression  of 
piteous  indecision  on  his  features — a  heavy  perspiration 
upon  his  brow — his  broad-leafed  Leghorn  hat  pushed  back 
upon  his  crown,  and  his  loose  coat  wrap})ed  more  closely 
than  usual  about  his  person. 

"  Are  you  ill,  uncle  ?"  was  Eugene's  first  question  as 
he  entered  the  room,  a  little  startled  by  the  sudden  meta- 
morphosis in  the  appearance  of  the  latter. 

"  Ha  !  Hugh,  are  you  there  ?  Come  here.  Oh,  we're 
ruined,  Hugh — horse  and  foot  we  are." 

"  What's  the  matter,  sir  ?" 

"  Read  that.  0  dear,  Hugh — what'll  we  do  at  all  ?  Is 
there  no  part  o'  the  world  safe  ?" 

Hugh  took  up  the  letter  and  read  as  follows. 

"Mr.  Hamond,  Sir, 

'•  This  comes  to  inform  you  that  I  conceive  myself 
S3veroly  ill  used  by  your  conduct  in  not  completing  our 
original  contract,  whereby  1  was  entitled,  on  dissolution  of 
partnership,  to  the  punch  of  niggers  that  were  worked  east- 
ward of  the  snarl  of  stones,  on  the  'bacco  plantation  ;  not 
one  cf  the  same,  each  estimated  at  three  hundred  dollars, 
moderate  computation,  being  delivered,  to  my  loss  accord- 
ing. Wherefore,  take  notice,  that  unless  present  conip;  n- 
sation  be  made  as  above,  I  shall  take  the  steps  necessary 
for  the  recovery  of  my  own." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Hugh,  "  is  this  really  contained  in 
vour  contract,  as  one  of  the  articles?" 


THE  HALF  SIR.  139 

**  It  was,  Hugh  ;  but,  you  see,  the  fellow  and  I  after- 
ward agreed  tliat  I  sliould  keep  the  bunch  of  niggers,  iu 
lieu  of  their  value  in  sugar,  which  he  sold  and  appropriated 
to  his  own  use — and  we  did  so  without  touching  the  con- 
tract ;  and  now  he  insists  that  it  has  not  been  fulfilled, 
though  I  have  paid  the  money  twice  over." 

"  Well,  sir  !  what  then  have  you  to  do,  but  to  tell  him 
to  go  about  his  business  ?" 

"  Ay,  Hugh,  but  he'd  commence  an  action  at  once,  and 
ruin  us." 

"  Without  ground  !  Ruin  himself  he  might,  sir  ;  but 
what  have  you  to  fear  from  an  action  brought  by  a  man 
who  has  no  claim  ?" 

"  Ah,  Hugh,  my  lad,  you  are  young  in  these  matters  ;  I 
tell  you,  the  Liw  is  such  a  thing,  that  he'd  make  it  out — 
lie'd  find  a  better  claim  to  all  I  have,  by  only  consulting  a 
few  lawyers,  than  I  have  myself.  We'll  be  ruiu'd,  that's 
the  fact  of  it." 

"  Then  take  an  opinion  yourself,  sir." 

"  Take  an  opinion  !  Consult  an  -  attorney  !  Let  a 
lawyer  come  within  my  doors  !  Think  o'  something  els;', 
Hugh,  do." 

"  Let  us  see  how  the  case  stands  ourselves,  then.  Was 
not  the  contract  made  in  America,  sir?" 

"  Ah,  Hugh  ;  but  this  fellow  had  his  establishment  here, 
so  that  both  houses  were  concerned  in  some  way — I  can't 
understand — but  I  know  the  affair  can  be  decided  here  ; 
and  as  everything  I  have  is  in  debentures,  all  but  Castle 
Haniond,  he  can  lay  his  hand  upon  the  whole  as  readily  as 
I  can  lift  this  tumbler.     0  Hugh  !" 

"  Stay,  sir,"  said  Eugene,  "I  will  read  a  little  on  the 
matter  for  you." 

He  took  down  a  volume  of  Blackstonc,  and  opened  at 
tiie  Rights  of  Things.  It  was  amusing  to  observe  the 
uLier  helplessness,  terror,  and  perplexity  which  became 
evcrv  minute  move  evident  on  the  old  man's  face  as  iiirf 


140  Tin-:  HALF  SIR. 

iicpnew  plunged  more  (lee))!}'  into  the  wiidoreess  cf  legal 
teclmicalitios  ;  the  distinctions  between  gifts  and  grants — a 
chose  in  action  and  a  cJiose  in  possession — conventions — 
obligations  ex  contractu  and  q}iasi  ex  contractu — chatties 
real  and  personal — considerations  do  ut  des ;  facio  %it 
facias  ;  facio  ut  des;  and  do  ul  facis  ; — nu/a  pacta — 
contracts  execiUcd,  executory,  express,  implied,  of  sale, 
exchange,  b:ii!a"ient,  hiring,  and  debt ;  ifsics,  trusts,  hand- 
sales, &c.,  &c. 

"  Shut  the  book  !  shut  the  book !"  he  at  length  ex- 
claimed, rising  from  the  sofa  and  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room  in  great  distress — "  No,  Hugh  ;  I'll  tell  you  how  I'll 
manage  it.  That's  the  plainest  bit  of  law  I  ever  heard, 
that  there  about  .1  and  B  and  the  flock  (.,f  sheep.  Sup- 
pose my  debentures  the  flock  of  sheep,  I  myself^,  and 
you^ — eh,  Hugh?  I'll  make  the  whole  over  by  gift  to 
you,  and  so  there's  an  end  to  all  law,  at  once." 

He  did  so — and  never  lifted  up  his  head  afte'-ward. 
The  sole  pleasin-e  of  his  life,  that  of  constantly  reminding 
his  nephew  of  his  dependence,  was  no  longer  in  his  power 
to  exercise.  Hugh  was  now  his  own  master,  and  his 
threats  and  murmurings  were  no  longer  anything  more  than 
an  emi)ty  sound. 

The  common  lot  of  all  old  uncles,  as  well  as  fathers,  at 
length  fell  to  the  hands  of  Mr.  Hamond.  After  having 
satisfied  himself  that  there  was  no  lavv  or  flaw  from  Nepos 
down  to  Trinepotis  Pronepos,  by  which  Eugene's  claim  to 
the  debentures  could  be  questioned,  he  yielded  to  the  secret 
conviction,  which  had  been  long  creeping  into  his  heart, 
tliat  his  days  were  numbered,  and  prepared  to  balance  the 
gvr-at  account  in  such  wise  as  he  niigliT,. 

"  It  is  no  use,  Hugh,"  said  he,  one  morning  after  the 
priest  had  left  the  sick  room,  and  while  tlie  young  man 
was  mingling  a  draught  by  his  bed-siile,  '•  I  sliall  die  now, 
s)ick-right-away.  1  have  a  long  score  to  adtl  nn,  but  the 
Atmighty  that  measures  my  time  will,  I  hope,  look  merci- 


.  I 

...J 


THE  HALF  SIR.  141 

fr-Uy  ou  the  T:&;e  that  is  made  of  it.  Hugh,  my  boy,  never 
forget  a  good  liiend  while  you  live — don't,  Plugh — never 
prefer  a  great  good  intention  to  a  little  good  action.  If  a 
poor  fi'iend  wants  a  frieze  coat,  don't  let  him  wait  in  his 
nakedness  till  you  can  give  him  a  cloak  o'  Manchestei' 
broad-cloth  ;  if  he  cry  to  you  for  a  crust  o'  bread,  don't 
bid  him  nurse  hunger  until  you  can  boil  him  a  terrapin.  I'm 
dying  very  uneasy,  Hugh.  Bury  me  near  my  father  and 
mother,  and  give  the  undertaking  to  my  old  acquaintance 
Dillon,  since  I  have  nothing  else  to  leave  him  of  my  own." 

*'llave  you  not,  uncle?"  said  Eugene,  stooping  over  the 
bed,  and  })lacing  ou  the  counterpane  the  deed  of  gift,  whicli 
h;ul  been  iu  his  keeping — "  This  parchment  has  served  its 
purjjoses !  I  now  restore  it  to  you,  and  with  it  take  my 
heart's  thanks  for  all  your  kindness  to  me." 

"  Eh,  Hugh  ?" 

"  0  my  dear  uncle,  I  may  now  at  least  talk  freely,  for 
my  heart  cannot  be  checked  any  longer  by  the  suspicion  of 
self-interest.  My  father  and  my  friend,  I  thank  you  for 
your  care,  your  love,  and  your  attention — the  days  that 
you  have  spent  in  laying  plans  for  my  advantage — ti:o 
nights  during  which  you  have  taken  my  dead  mother's 
place  by  my  bed-side — for  all  that  you  have  done  for  me, 
take  my  heart's  gratitude.  If  ever  I  looked  a  look,  or 
spoke  a  word  to  dis[)lease  you,  I  disown  the  eyes  and  lips 
that  gave  the  oftence ;  those  only  are  mine  that  ai;e  now 
I'ouring  out  at  your  ieet  their  tears  and  prayers  for  your 
turgiveness." 

Old  Hamond  was  not  the  less  pleased  at  this  burst  of 
enthusiasm  from  his  young  friend,  because  it  was  totally 
unexpected.  Ho  raised  himself  with  difficidty  in  the  bed. 
placed  owe  hand  over  his  eyes,  as  if  to  strengtlien  and  con- 
centrate the  feeble  and  wavering  power  of  vision  which  re- 
mained to  them,  while  he  readied  the  other  to  his  nephew, 
gazing,  with  as  much  steadiness  as  he  coidd  command,  ou 
the  glov\iug,  open,  upturned  tace  of  the  young  man.     Ua 


1  !3  TiiE  HALF  srs. 

dn-vijicd  the  deed  on  the  floor,  retained  Eiijene's  hand, 
Avhicli  he  pressed  once  or  twice,  saying,  "  You  are  a  good 
hid,  Hngli ;  you  are  indeed.  God  bs  v^ith  you,  boy  ;  he 
will,  I  am  sure." 

In  less  than  a  fortnight  after  this  inter%'iew,  in  which 
the  misunderstanding  of  a  whole  life  had  been  c'eared  up 
so  happily  and  so  late,  Eugene  Hamond  fulfilled  his  bene- 
factoi's  last  wishes,  by  laying  htm  beside  his  parents  in  the 
churchyard  of  his  native  village. 

We  have  now  seen  the  many  circumstances  of  Eugene's 
early  life  Avhich  contributed  to  foster  and  irritate  the  ori- 
ginal malady  of  his  disposition — his  low  birth,  his  early 
orphanage,  his  bruised  and  shattered  pride,  his  suspected 
jiti'ection,  his  unappreciated  gratitude,  and  his  gnawing, 
because  specious  and  gilded  poverty.  Will  the  reader  deem 
it  worth  his  while  to  see  how  such  a  nature,  sensitive  even 
to  a  perfectly  morbid  acutcncss  of  perception,  fared  in  its 
first  contact  with  the  contingencies  of  a  rank  superior  to 
his  own?  following  him  into  that  rank,  however,  rather  in 
pursuance  of  his  individual  history,  than  with  the  view  of 
furnishing  any  new  information  respecting  it. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Clenmont Boy,  marshal  hiin. 

Boy. — With  a  truncheon,  sir? 
Clerimont. — Away,  I  beseech  you.    I'll  mal\e  him  tell 
ns  his  pedigree,  now.  Btn  Jonson. 

What  Irish  fashionable  life  was  at  the  period  when  Hamond 
first  found  liimself  in  possession  of  his  uncle's  property  (soon 
after  the  Union,)  is  no  longer  a  question  to  be  solved  by 
the  Irish  novelist.  Few  persons,  we  apprehend,  will  open 
thise  volumes  who  have  not  already  been  made  aAvare  of 
all  its  varieties,  by  a  writer  wlio  was  the  first  to  put  the 


TUE  HALF  SIR.  143 

sickle  into  the  burthened  field  of  Irish  manners ;  in  wliosa 
footsteps  we  follow,  like  Chaucer's  gleaner,  at  a  lon^-  inter- 
val, with  fearful  and  hesitating  pace,  casting  our  eyes  around 
to  gather  in  the  scattered  ears  which  remain  after  the  ricii- 
ness  of  her  harvest. 

One  observation,  however,  we  understand,  may  be  added 
to  what  Mada  Edgeworth  has  already  recorded  of  th^  circ'o 
of  Irish  fashion — that,  although  it  is  necessarily  composed 
of  far  inferior  materials  to  that  of  the  exclusives  in  the  sist  r 
kingdom,  it  is  a  matter  of  lesser  ditiiculty  for  wealth  to  pay 
its  way  into  the  region  in  the  latter  than  the  former,  pride 
— mere  family  pride,  is  one  of  the  grand  rsational  foibles 
which  yet  remain  unshaken  by  the  inroads  of  modei-n  intel- 
ligence ;  and  no  internal  or  external  wealth  with  wiiich  a 
man  may  be  gifted  in  his  own  person,  wiil  compensate  ioi" 
the  mental  or  corporeal  poverty  of  his  ancestors.  This  feel- 
ing (which  is  not  without  its  uses  when  confined  within 
rational  limits,)  is  frequently  carried  beyond  the  bounds  ot 
absurdity,  and  exercises  au  influence  among  all  classes,  from 
the  gaudy  mob  of  cold  starers  in  a  castle  drawing-room,  to 
the  group  of  frieze-coated  "  fol!yers,"or  clansmen,  who  talk 
over  the  deeds  of  their  ancestry  by  a  cabin  fire-side.  Daz- 
zled and  delighted  as  he  was  on  his  first  introduction  to  a 
rank  in  which  he  found  those  refined  feelings  and  delic.ite 
miseries  of  common  occurrence,  which  in  that  which  he  had 
left  wore  not  understood,  or  laughed  at  as  aftectation,  cr 
(worse  than  all)  pitied,  and  stigmatized  by  the  odious  title 
of  nervous  irritability — delighted,  we  repeat,  as  he  was  at 
first  sight  of  a  mode  of  life  so  congenial  to  his  heart,  he  soon 
found  in  the  original  sin  of  his  low  birth,  an  occasion  of 
deeper  and  more  real  suffering  than  any  which  he  had  yet 
endured.  In  order  to  illustrate  some  of  the  observations 
which  we  have  made,  perhaps  the  reader  wiil  allow  us  lo 
shift  the  scene  for  a  tew  moments,  and  omitting  a  detail  of 
the  mhior  occurrences  which  filled  up  the  time  of  Eiigeuo 
foi  aome  mouLus  alrcr  his  benefactor's  death,  introduce  Oiu- 


H  t  TUE  HALF  SIK. 

pelves  at  once  Into  the  drawing-room  of  a  family  from  Trhom 
we  may  learn  something  of  his  fortunes. 

It  was  an  extensive,  elegantly  furnished  apartment,  indi- 
cating rank  as  well  as  fashion  and  wealth.  A  work-table, 
tastefully  littered  with  scraps  of  pic-nic  needle-work,  not 
substantial  enough  to  incur  the  suspicion  of  utility — ^just 
snfficed  by  contrast  to  temper  and  modify  the  general  air  of 
Insure  and  luxury  Avhich  pervaded  the  room,  and  to  redeem 
fj'om  the  imputation  of  absolute  idleness,  two  very  young 
ladies,  whose  soft  white  fingers  escaping  from  the  confine- 
ment of  a  half-handed  jean  glove,  were  wandering  in  busy 
i'lleness  among  sections  of  frills,  laces,  &c.,  while  the  fair 
companions,  relieved  from  the  observation  of  other  eyes  and 
ears,  were  coming  over  the  secrets  of  their  girlish  hearts  in 
amiable  confidence.  One  of  them  was  a  blonde  of  a  quite 
sedate  carriage,  almost  treading  on  the  skirts  of  lethargy. 
The  other,  a  finely  formed  girl,  witli  full  black  eyes,  hair 
cut  short  and  clustering  all  round  the  head  (a  fashion  not 
yet  gone  out  of  use,)  a  forehead  on  which  the  seal  of  a 
noble  house  was  as  distinctly  set,  as  if  the  arms  had  been 
emblazoned  upon  it;  and  features  which  even  in  silence 
seemed  to  move  in  restless  sympathy  with  the  animation  of 
a  restless  spirit.  On  the  cover  of  her  ivory  work-box  tlu-. 
Dame  "  Emilv  Bury,"  was  prettily  inlaid,  and  a  morocco- 
bound  prayer-book,  near  her  companion,  showed  the  words 
— "  ^Iartha  O'Bkien,"  impressed  iu  gold  letters  upon  the 
cover. 

"Well,  Martha,  you  are  a  better  archer  than  I,  after 
pdl,"  said  the  dark-eyed  girl ;  "  here,  while  I  liave  been 
toying  about  the  target  with  a  hundred  strings  looped  upon 
my  bow,  you  with  your  single  one  have  shot  the  shaft  and 
hit  the  very  centre  of  the  mark.  So  I  must  be  youi*  bride- 
maid  !" 

*'  You  must  not  envy  me,  Emily." 

"  Envy  you,  ycu  silly  girl ! — Hand  me  those  scissors. 
please.    I  pity  you.     You  have  just  done  like  a  child  thai 


TEB  HALF  SIB.  145 

swallows  its  sngar-plum  at  a  mouthful,  and  then  cries  to 
iind  it  gone.  The  women  ought  to  send  you  to  Cov^entry, 
for  giving  up  the  sex's  privilege.  Do  you  think  we  were 
made  only  to  drop  like  ripe  peaches  into  a  man's  moutii, 
as  he  lies  lazily  iu  our  shade,  gaping  his  admiration  ? — to 
be  crunched  into  a  sober  wife  at  the  very  first  word  !  Don't 
stare  so,  child — there's  nobody  listening  to  us." 

"  That's  well  at  any  rate.  I  must  tell  you  a  secret,  Emily. 
Your  beaux  all  find  your  pride  intolerable.  You  are  get- 
ting the  name  of  a  coquette." 

"  Am  I  ? — I'm  glad  of  it.  The  wretches !  They  would 
deny  as  even  that  brief  day  of  sovereignty — that  little 
holiday  between  the  drudgery  of  obedience  to  parents  and 
obedience  to  husbands.  Ah,  Martha,  you  will  say  that  I 
am  a  wise  girl  before  you  have  worn  caps  with  ears  for 
many  montli:^." 

"  I  wish  Mr.  O'Neil  heard  you." 

"  0 !  he'd  be  delighted.  He's  a  true  Irishraati.  He  likes 
a  proud  woman,  even  though  her  contempt  should  fiill  hea- 
viest upon  him -elf.  There  never  was  a  man  who  lived  so 
entirely  ujiuu  tiie  possession  of  his  friends  as  Mr.  O'Neil, 
He  is  a  poor  man  himself,  he  admits,  but  then  he  is  the 
poorest  of  his  own  family — he  is  an  uninformed  blockhead, 
he  will  allow  you,  but  then  he  has  such  '  bright'  people,  re- 
lations of  his — he  does  not  deny  that  he  is  a  worthless, 
dissipated  wretch,  but  all  the  rest  of  his  family  are  so  re- 
spectable and  so  liighminded.  In  fact,  you  would  think,  to 
hear  him  speak,  that  he  was  proud  of  being  the  scrape-grace 
of  his  own  house — the  only  black  sheep  ia  the  fair  flock  of 
the  white-fleeced  O'Neil's." 

"  Well,  there  is  another  young  gentleman,  Eugene  Ha- 
niond — 

*'  Quere,  gentleman—" 

"  There  again,  Emily !  You  wonder  that  I  should  charge 
you  with  iujustici — A  blush? — Fie!  you  malicious  creature! 
to  lut  me  on  the  top  of  the  finger  with  that  heavy  scissors  I 


146  THE  HALF  SIR 

Dtit  seriou~ily,  Emily,  you  use  poor  Kamond  very  crnoUw 
If  lie  lieard  you  say  such  a  cutting  thing  as  that  lasf,  I  know 
b.it  little  of  tlu!  gentleman,  or  you  would  see  but  little  of 
liim  af.erwiird." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  he's  perfectly  welcome  to  do  what  he 
pleases.  I  don't  think  him  so  vulnerable,  however.  I 
will  try  him  a  good  deal  farther  yet.  You  would  not  sup- 
l)0se  that  underneath  all  that  amiable  timidity  and  embar- 
rassment which  makes  him  stammer  ia  his  speech — look 
pale  and  vexed — answer  with  a  quivering  lip  to  my  com- 
mou-plrtce  questions — start  at  my  least  motion — seem  ab- 
sent— and  forget  to  turn  my  music  leaves  and  praise  my 
singing  (for  true  love  is  scriqiulou?) — beneath  all  this,  I  say, 
you  wouldn't  think  that  I  have  discovered  one  of  the  proud- 
est and  most  violent  natures  that  ever  made  a  bad  husband. 
At  the  last  Tabinet  ball,  he  had  got  me  iuto  a  corner,  and 
grew  all  on  a  sudden  so  pathetically  eloquent  that  I — I  was 

about  to  give  some  queer  answer,  when  young  Lord  E 

passed  us,  and  bowed  to  me.  I  smiled  of  course,  and 
turning  again  to  Hamond,  got  such  a  look !  Ton  my  hon- 
our, I'm  sure  I  heard  his  teeth  chattering !  0  ho !  my 
gentleman,  thought  I,  your  humble  servant.  You  will  wait 
for  my  answer  until  I  have  taught  you  something  first,  or 
learned  more  of  you  myself." 

"  But  how  long  do  you  intend  to  make  this  game  last, 
Emily  ?" 

"  Till  I  find  myse:f  a  lover,  Martha  ;  when  the  pastime 
tires  me,  I  may  perhaps  run  to  a  corner,  and  be  check- 
mated quietly.  Bat  I  never  will,  like  yon,  let  my  oppo- 
nent get  a  scholar's  mate  before  I  make  three  moves." 

"  Well,  there  may  be  danger  still  in  all  this  cleverness. 
What  if  your  adversary  should  give  up  the  contest  in  de- 
spair ?     There  are  no  forfeited  stakes  to  comfort  you.** 

"Psha!  the  worst  he  can  do  would  be  to  make  it  a 
drawn  game.  Besides,  are  there  not  plenty  of  people  who 
would  be  happy  to  take  up  the  couqtieruri"* 


THE  HALF  SIB.  147 

"Bnt  would  the  conqueror  be  happy  to  take  up  them?" 

"  No  iiisi mictions,  pray.  I  may  punish  you  as  I  liave 
done  befoi-e.  But  really,  Martha,  I  have  no  pride,  upon  my 
honour;  and  the  little  secret  I  told  you  about  Eugene  the 
other  day,  might  show  you  I  have  not." 

"  You  needn't  blush  so,  Emily.  Do  you  suppose  I 
actually  snspect  you  of  such  folly  ?  I  merely  wished  to 
warn  you  of  the  consequences  of  seeming  to  be  influenced 
by  it.  And,  once  again,  mark  my  words  for  it,  Eugene 
Hamond  will  not  bear  any  goading  on  the  conscious  side." 

"  We'll  try  him  a  little,  however  ;  you  don't  know  him 
so  well  as  you  think.  Was  he  not  greatly  improved  b)  his 
tri-p  to  the  country?" 

*'  He  does  look  very  well.  Pie's  one  of  the  handsomest 
young  men  I  know,  really.     His  hair  is  beautiful—" 

"  And  his  eyes — " 

"  And  such  wliitc  regular  teeth ! — What  he'd  give  to  be 
listening  to  us  now  !" 

"  Here,  Martha,  you  must  finish  your  lace  yourself. 
I'll  woik  no  more — I  must  practise.  l3id  I  show  you  tho 
last  song  Hamond  gave  me?"  And  remo\ing  the  greep 
covering  from  a  magnificent  harp  which  stood  near  the 
window,  she  suflercd  it  to  rest  against  her  shoulder,  whila 
she  ran  over  the  jirehide  of  a  sinqile  Irish  air,  previous  to 
accompanying  herself  in  the  melody  of  which  she  had 
spoken.  Its  subject  was  the  iniagimiry  lament  of  a  young 
Canadian  emigiaut  over  the  grave  of  his  young  wife. — 


The  tie  is  broke,  my  Irish  girl 

That  bound  thee  here  to  me, 
My  heart  has  lost  its  single  pearl — 

And  thine  at  last  is  free — 
Dead  as  the  earlh  that  wrajis  thj'  clay, 

Dead  as  the  stone  above  thee — 
Cold  as  this  heait  that  breaks  to  say 

It  nevOT  more  can  love  thee. 


1 


H8  THE  HALF  SIB. 

II. 

I  press  tlice  to  my  acliiiij;  breast— 

iS'o  blush  conies  o'er  thy  brow— 
Those  s'entlc  arms  that  once  caress'd. 

Fall  round  me  deatlly  now. 
The  smiles  of  love  no  longer  part 

Those  dead  blue  lips  of  thine; 
I  lay  my  hand  upon  thine  heart— 

'Tis  cold,  at  last,  to  mine. 

iir. 
Were  we  beneath  our  native  heaven 

Within  our  native  land, 
A  fairer  grave  to  thee  were  given, 

Than  this  wild  bed  of  sand. 
But  thou  wert  single  in  thy  faith 

And  single  in  thy  worth, 
And  thou  should'st  die  a  lonely  death, 

And  lie  in  lonely  earth. 

IV. 

Then  lay  thee  down  and  tnke  thy  rest, 

My  last — last  look  is  given — 
The  earth  is  smooth  above  tlnj  breast, 

And  mine  is  yet  unriven ! 
No  mass — no  jiarting  rosary — 

My  perished  love  can  have — 
Bi;t  a  husband's  sighs  embalm  her  corse, 

A  husbands  tears  her  grave. 

A  soft  hesitating  knock  at  tlie  hall-door  startled  the  fair 
r.iiiistrel,  who  blushed,  and  fetched  her  breath  while  she 
half  rose  from  the  silk-cusliioned  stool. 

"  Tis  his  knock,  indeed,"  said  the  fairer  of  the  ladies. 
"  His  knock  always  says,  '  Let  me  in,  if  yon  please,'  as 
plainly  as  O'Neil's  says,  '  Let  me  in.'  'Tis  the  most  modest 
coimd  that  was  ever  extracted  from  mere  brass,  decidedly." 

"  The  vain  fellow  musn't  hear  me  sinking  his  song,"  said 
Emily,  hastily  turning  over  the  leaves  of  her  music— 
'' What's  this?  Oli,  a  little  piece  of  O'Neil's  nonsense; 
that  will  just  do — I'll  vex  him  a  little."  And  running  a 
lively  prelude  over  the  strings  of  the  instrinnent,  she  com- 


THE  HALF  SIPw  149 

menc^d  an  air  of  a  very  difterent  character — in  a  tone  of 
merriment  not  nnminglcd,  however,  with  a  certain  degree 
f'H  palpitation  and  embarrassment. 


When  love  in  a  yountj  lieart  his  dwelling  has  taken, 
Ai  d  pines  on  the  wliite  cheek,  and  burns  in  the  veins, 

Say  how  can  the  reign  of  the  tyrant  be  shaken — 
By  absence?  by  poverty  ?  sickness?  or  chains? 


Ko— these  have  been  tried,  and  the  tempted  has  come, 
Unmoved  through  the  changes  of  grief  and  distress — 

But  if  you  would  send  him  at  once  to  the  tomb, 
You  must  poison  his  hope  with  a  dose  of— success. 

"Admirable!  Excellent!"  exclaimed  a  voice  oittside 
tlio  door,  which,  oponin^x  at  the  same  instant,  gave  to  the 
vi.'w  of  tlie  surprised  and  (so'far  as  one  was  concerned)  dis- 
aj)pointed  ladies,  the  gay  and  rakish  person  of  tlie  author 
ot  the  hist  song.  He  made  a  bow  to  Miss  O'Brien,  a  low 
bow  to  Miss  Bury,  and  seemed  determined,  as  it  was  a  rare 
occurrence  in  his  lite  to  receive  a  compliment,  particularly 
from  a  lady,  to  entertain  it  with  ail  the  solemnity  and  im- 
])Ort<incc  of  manner  which  became  the  occasion.  "  Miss 
Bury's  execution  is  killing,  isn't  it  ?"  he  went  on  address- 
ing himself  witlia  pick-pocket  smile  to  Miss  O'Brien — 

"  Such  as  only  her  musical  tongnie 
Could  give  to  such  numbers  as  mine." 

"  Ton  my  word,  Mr.  O'Neil,  my  conscience  won't  per> 
niit  me  to  let  you  remain  in  error.  I  assure  you — I  mis- 
took your  knock — " 

'•  Now,  do  you  henr  this.  Miss  O'Brien  ?"  said  Mr. 
0"N('il,  interrupting  her,  "  here's  a  poor  fellow  that  hasn't 
a  civil  word  thrown  to  him  by  anybody  once  in  a  year — 
nnd — well ! — well ! — it  reminds  me  of  what  an  ancestcr  ot 
mine,  Sir  Maurice  O'Neil,  said  to  Lord " 

"  0  you  told  us  that  befure,"  said  Miss  Bury. 


150  THE  HALF  SIB. 

"  Thoi-e's  more  of  it !  "Well,  whose  linock  did  yoa  take 
it  for  ?" 

"Mr.  Hamond's,"  said  J\Iiss  O'Brien. 

"  What  Hamond  ?  Any  thing  to  the  Ilamonds  of  Lough- 
rore  ?  They're  the  only  decent  Ilamonds  I  kno\y.  A 
grand-uncle  of  theirs,  old  David  Hamond,  was  nriarried  to 
one  of  the  O'Loarys  of  Morne — very  good  family — I  recol- 
lect my  grandmother  saying — " 

"  He  is  no  relative  of  theirs." 

«  \Yho  then  ?" 

"  You  might  have  seen  him  at  the  Castle." 

"  Eh  ?  what  ? — the  young  nabob  ?  Oh,  cut  him  by  all 
means — he's  one  of  the  rahbl' — mechanic.  He's  only  tit 
company  for  the  tagrag  and  bobtail  of  the  gentry,  fellows 
like  myself,  who  are  th.)  disgrace  of  their  family,  /might 
take  up  with  such  a  fellow  for  an  evening,  because  he  had 
money  and  I  had  none  ;  but  I  would  not  like  that  any  of 
the  wealthy  members  of  my  family  should  tolerate  him. 
Enough  for  such  a  vagabond  as  myself  to  be  seen  in  such 
company." 

"  Oh  you  speak  too  hardly  of  yourself,  Mr.  O'Ncil ;  we 
all  know  that  your  family  is  one  of  the  best  in  Ireland." 

"  My  dear  ma'am,  surely  I  know  it  is — and  that's  the 
reason  I  speak.  Why,  bk'ss  you.  Miss  Bury,  /  have  rela- 
tions that  wouldn't  know  me  iu  the  street !  Siuiple  as  I 
sit  here,  there's  not  one  o'  my  family  tiiat  wculdu't  bo 
ashamed  to  be  seen  speaking  to-  me  in  any  public  place. 
There  are  few  besides  me  have  that  to  say.  We  were 
eighteen  or  twenty  of  us,  at  my  cousin  Harry's  iu  Kerry 
some  months  since,  and,  I  protest  to  you,  without  any 
bragging,  boasting,  or  vain-glory,  I  was  the  siia'  biedt  and 
the  poorest  of  the  coaipuny.  Would  you  believe  that 
now  ?" 

''  T  could  hardly  b?Heve  that  ycu  take  cccasion  for  van- 
ity oat  of  such  a  c'lcumstauc •." 

"  Vanity  !  my  dear  1 — it's  my  pride  and  gloiy ;  and  wliy 


THE  HALF  SIR.  151 

not  ?  Arn't  my  relations  my  own  family?  Supposing 
that  I  am  at  all  respectable  in  my  own  person,  wliicli  I 
grieve  to  say  is  a  very  doubtful  case,  even  to  those  thai 
Know  little  of  me,  isn't  it  a  great  thing  for  me  to  say  that 
tlu  re  is  none  of  my  name  below  me  ?  If  a  mp.n  deserves 
ary  additional  rosp'^ct  on  account  of  his  family,  surely  tlie 
higher  they  are  above  himself  the  greater  his  accession  of 
honour  ?  What  credit  could  I  receive  from  a  fellow  who 
was  below  me  ?  Ay,  you  laugh — as  much  as  to  say,  that 
would  be  a  precious  lad — but  doesn't  it  make  out  my  point? 
I  felt  more  proud  the  other  day  when  my  uncle  llichard  cut 
me  at  the  Castle  than  if  I  had  got  a  cukedoni." 

"  There's  tlie  true  Sosia,  Emily,"  said  Miss  O'Brien,  as 
another  pattering  summons,  still  more  gentle  and  insinuat- 
ing than  that  which  was  used  by  Mr.  O'Neil,  C7i  ruse,  was 
heard  to  echo  through  the  spacious  hall. 

Presently  after,  a  rich,  though  rather  languid  voice,  heard 
in  parlt-y  with  the  servant,  proved  Miss  O'Brien's  second 
conjecture  right.  It  was  Eugene  Hamond.  He  was 
shown  up. 

'i'iie  ladies  received  him  kindly,  but  formally.  ]\Ir. 
O'Neil  stood  as  straight  as  if  a  poker  were  substituted  fur 
his  spine.  It  was  laughable  enough  to  observe  the  air  of 
cold  leprcssing  pride  with  which  this  man,  who  confessed 
liiinself  worthless  in  every  respect,  and  was  destitute  alike 
of  mental  as  of  corporeal  advantages,  stood  up  to  receive 
the  accomplished,  elegant,  and  unassuming  plebeian  wiio 
now  stood  before  him.  Eugene  did  not  heed,  nor  scarcely 
observe  this — but  the  deportment  of  the  ladies  touched  him 
more  nearly.  In  order  to  make  the  reader  perfectly  enter 
into  his  feelings  on  the  occasion,  we  shall  sliortly  explain 
the  relative  position  in  wliicii  both  parties  were  placed. 

Eugene  Hamond's  determination  to  alter  his  station  in 
life,  and  endeavour  to  naturalise  himself  in  a  rank  above  his 
own,  had  not  been  hastily  considered,  or  resolved  upon  horn 
BO  better  impulse  than  that  of  an  idle  vanity.     Naturally 


152  THE  HALF  SIR. 

pftfil  with  a  quick  eye,  and  ready  approheasion  of  the  pe- 
culiar tone  of  any  grade  of  society  into  which  he  happened 
to  be  thrown,  he  required  but  a  very  brief  acquaintance 
with  the  workl,  to  enable  him  to  discover  all  the  difficulties 
and  mortifications  he  would  have  to  encounter  in  the  un- 
dertaking, and  he  weighed  those  long  and  seriously  against 
the  advantages  which  he  proposed  to  himself  from  the 
change. 

*'  I  admit,"  he  said  within  himself,  as  he  mused  by  his 
afternoon  fire,  over  the  kindness  and  the  slights  which  he 
had  met  with  in  the  course  of  the  morning — "  I  admit  that 
for  the  interests  of  society  in  general,  and  for  those  of  mo- 
rality, and  of  religion  itself,  it  would  be  much  better  that 
all  men  should  remain  in  that  rank  in  wiiich  they  v/ere 
born,  or  at  least  that  nothing  less  than  a  development  of 
capabilities,  absolutely  wonderful,  should  entitle  them  to 
seek  a  place  above  their  fathers.  If  distinctions  of  rank 
are  in  any  degree  useful  or  commendable,  it  is  necessary 
they  should  be  maintained  even  to  exclusion,  unless  in  a 
very  few  instances,  when  the  applicant  fur  admission  brings 
an  ample  equivalent  in  some  one  great  and  beneficial  qua- 
lity to  the  fortuitous  superiority  of  those  whose  acquaint- 
ance he  cultivates.  I  admit  all  this.  But  the  case  is 
otherwise — that  system  of  abcolute  and  unrelenting  exclu- 
sion is  not  maintained,  and  the  question  is,  whether  my 
case  is  not  peculiar  enough  to  justify  me  in  seeking  for  an 
additional  infraction.  My  poor  friends  must  not  be  my 
companions — that  is  clear.  The  accident  of  my  infancy 
— my  disposition — my  education — habits — all  have  con- 
spired to  place  a  wall  between  me  and  the  humble  life  from 
wiiich  I  sprung,  which  I  cannot,  and  would  not,  it'  T  could, 
overleap.  Circumstances  have  fitted  me  for  anoihcrsta- 
tion,  and  that  station  is  left  open  to  nie.  It  is  true  that 
I  shall  meet,  as  I  have  met,  many  a  cold  repulse  in  the 
attempt,  but  there  are,  likcAvise,  many  over-balancing  de- 
lights.    Those  smiles,  so  ready,  so  sweet,  so  winning,  so 


THE  HALF  SIR.  Ib6 

lieartecl,  or  seeming  licaitGcl  (and  that  for  me,  whose  clilef 
wish  is  to  steer  dear  of  the  asperities  of  life,  would  uiio.. . » 
ahnost  as  well  as  the  siiicerit}-  itself)  so  courteous,  and  so 
kind — their  biilliaut  tiifliug  and  refined  pleasantry — are 
these  nothing  to  the  favoured  and  initiated  ?  I  will  make 
the  trial  at  all  events  ;  and  if  I  fail — if  the  cold  eyes  and 
staring,  unmoved  faces  that  glance  like  horrid  spectres 
upon  the  path  of  the  young  and  unacknowledged  fashionist 
should  multiply  upon  mine,  why  then,  farewell  happiness 
and  high  life,  and  welcome  once  again  my  lowly  cot  and 
homely  Munster  village!" 

He  did  make  the  trial ;  and  he  soon  found  that  the  diffi- 
culties which  he  had  anticipated  were  not  so  fleeting  nor 
so  easily  surmounted  as  he  thought  they  might  be.  The 
encouragement  which  he  met  with  was  much  more  than 
sutHcient  to  have  established  a  blunter  and  less  vulnerable 
nature  in  perfect  peace  in  the  new  region  ;  but  liamond's 
was  one  whicli  would  make  no  exertion  for  itself,  wliilc  it 
took  fire  at  the  slightest  act  of  neglect  from  o4:her3.  He 
seemed  to  expect  that  all  should  agree  to  drag  him  for- 
ward in  spite  of  himself,  and  consequently  made  very  little 
account  of  condescensions,  which  were  estimated  at  a  high 
value  by  those  who  conferred  them.  A  hankering  con- 
sciousness clung  about  his  manner  and  his  conversation, 
even  in  his  intercourse  with  those  families  who  were  best 
disposed  to  receive  him  as  an  equal ;  and  it  was  scarcely 
to  be  expected,  that  while  he  seemed  bent  upon  carr)ing 
the  recollection  of  his  low  origin  always  about  him,  other 
people  should  endeavour  to  forget  it  for  him.  Besides,  it 
was  not  very  agreeable  to  his  new  friends  to  find  that  they 
mu:t  ai.vays  speak  under  a  restraint  in  his  presence — that 
tuey  could  hardly  venture  ou  a  jest,  or  a  sly  speech,  what  - 
ever  were  the  subject  of  it,  without  finding  Mr.  Hamond's 
5pi.il  up  in  arms  to  discover  whether  there  were  any  oti'euce 
intended  towards  liim.  He  began  to  feel  the  couscqueiices 
0.'  iih  su:>picious  and  sensiiive  temper — people  shunued  him 


1  54  THE  HALF  SIR. 

— some  ;entlv,  some  promptly  and  without  apology,  some 
in  pure  pity,  some  with  ui.aked  contempt,  and  some  iu 
apprehension.  Tiieu  the  suspicion  of  the  truth  broke  upun 
liim  ;  he  saw  others  of  far  inferior  pretensions  to  himself, 
by  a  little  assurance  of  manner  and  an  indifierence  to  the 
flesh-wounds  of  neglect  and  accidental  coldness,  succeed  in 
fastening  themselves  upon  the  fair  eminence,  on  the  crumb- 
ling and  uncertain  brink  of  which  he  was  yet  toiling,  in  the 
anxiety  of  hope  and  fear ;  and  he  made  an  exertion  to 
imitate  their  example,  and  to  assume  an  easy  callousness 
of  heart,  until,  at  least,  his  hold  should  be  made  permanent 
and  secure.  But  he  miscalculated  his  capabilities  most 
egregiously.  A  more  hideous  and  painful  spectacle,  per- 
haps, cannot  be  met  with  in  the  every-day  occurrences  of 
society  than  that  of  a  person  of  incorrigible  timidity  and 
reserve,  assuming,  or  attempting  to  assume,  by  absolute 
violence,  the  appearance  of  periect  ease  and  unconscious 
oj)cnnes=.  If  iiamond's  gentle  embarrassment  and  absence 
ot  manner  rendered  him  a  burthen  to  his  companions  belbre 
— Ills  nov/  demeanour — his  strange  familiarity — his  queer 
embarrassed  laugh — his  ill-timed  joke  that  made  everybody 
look  serious,  and  his  intrusive  dogmatism  of  remark,  abso- 
lutely astonished,  frightened,  and  disgusted  them.  Having 
once  convinced  himself  of  the  expediency  of  doing  violence 
to  his  own  feelings,  he  knew  not  where  to  stop,  and  on 
passing  the  boundary  which  his  own  heart  prescribed  to 
him,  lie  trampled  without  discriuiination,  and,  indeed,  in 
absolute  ignorance,  upon  those  which  custom  and  decency 
had  marked  out  for  his  observance. 

Hi  was  once  more  compelled  to  retire  in  disgrace  into 
his  natural  self;  and  almost  began  to  cntji'tain  thouglits  oi 
quitling  the  HAd  iu  dcs^.jr  ibr  ever,  when  a  new  and 
strange  accident — strange  to  him,  though  of  very  usual 
occurrence  in  the  history  ot  tlie  human  heart — prevented  cr 
delayed  his  retreat.  A  tilled  beauty  had  proudly  declined 
the  honour  of  dancing  witli  him   at  a  fashionable  pa  ty, 


I — 


THE  HALF  SrR.  ISfj 

and  he  was  silently  stealing  through  the  company,  ^vith  tho 
intention  of  getting  eveiytl)ing  ready  for  his  departure  for 
home  on  the  neyt  morning — when,  happening  to  cast  a 
hurried  glance  aside,  he  perceived,  in  the  aperture  between 
the  conclioid  of  a  gentleman's  nose  and  the  rosy  rotundity 
of  a  marchioness's  cheek — a  soft  black  eye,  in  the  distance, 
directed  full  upon  him,  with  an  exjiression  of  the  tendercs! 
interest  his  poor  ftjrlorn  heart  had  ever  experienced  since  it 
had  been  cast  upon  the  busy  wilderness  of  fashion.  There 
never  was  an  eye — not  in  Ireland  ;  no,  not  even  in  Mun- 
ster,  nor  in  bright-eyed  Limerick  itself — that  did  its  owner 
yeoman's  service  like  that  one.  It  made  as  swift  work 
of  Eugene's  heart  as  (the  reader  will  pardon  onr  saciitic- 
ing  elegance  to  strength) — as  a  pavier's  rammer  might 
have  done.  It  was  an  eye  that  had  been  following 
Hamond  in  silence  throughout  the  evening  with  a  kinder 
closeness  of  observation  than  mere  commiseration  might 
suggest ;  and  was  now,  at  the  particular  moment  when  it 
came  in  direct  contact  of  intelligence  vvith  his  ov.  n,  filled 
up  with  the  gentlest  concern.  On  inquiry,  Hamond  dis- 
covered that  it  was  the  property  of  a  lady  of  high  birth, 
and  (of  course)  fine  accomplishments;  her  name  that  of  the 
fiiir  songstress  to  whom  we  have  lately  introduced  our 
readers. 

•From  this  moment  the  whole  object  of  Hamond's  life 
was  changed.  He  no  longer  courted  the  patronage  nor 
heeded  the  neglect  of  fashion — and  only  stole  quietly  through 
its  bye  ways  to  secure  himself  a  place  at  the  side  of  her 
who  now  appeared  to  him  to  constitute  its  sole  attraction 
and  adornment. 

"  I  was  mistaken  in  it,"  he  said,  in  his  distaste  and  im- 
patience; "  this  proud  world  is  not  made  for  me,  nor  I  for 
it.  I  will  return  to  the  condition  from  which  I  was  taken, 
and  divest  myself  as  speedily  as  possible  of  thos3  unhealthy 
luxuriances  of  feeling,  which  my  pjor  uncle,  in  endeavour- 
ing to  make  a  forced  plant  of  mc,  little  ca'culatcd  on  pro* 


L. 


155  THE  HALF  SIH. 

dncing.  But  before  I  return  to  the  ways  of  plain  and  honest 
nature,  I  will  endeavour  to  pluck  out  of  this  rank  and  uii- 
weeded  garden,  that  single  rose  for  the  decoration  of  my 
humble  hearth." 

That  little  rose,  however,  iiappened  to  be  a  great  deal 
more  thorny  than  he  apprehended.  Although  he  was  not 
long  in  ascertaining  that  he  had  made  a  progress  in  the 
good  opinion  of  I\Iiss  Bury,  which  might  have  satisfied  even 
the  voracious  craving  of  a  sensitive  love  like  his,  yet  tliere 
were  many  annoyances  equally  disagreeable  to  both  parties, 
which  mingled  in  the  delicacies  of  their  intimacy,  and  re- 
tarded that  perfect  union  of  spirit  which  is  ever  necessary 
to  the  gratification  of  a  heart  that  is  at  all  dainty  in  its  aific- 
tious.  Emily  had  betrayed  some  lack  of  self-knowledge, 
when  she  declared  to  her  friend  ]\Iartha,  that  she  had  no 
pride.  She  had  not  enough  to  enable  her  to  master  her 
passion  for  her  plebeian  lover — but  she  had  quite  enough 
to  feel  annoyed  and  humiliated  by  the  slights  which  were 
continually  thrown  on  him  and  in  her  presence.  On  these  oc- 
casions, when  Eugene  attempted  to  resume  the  conversa- 
tion which  had  been  so  disagreeably  interrupted,  he  would 
find  Miss  Bury  a  little  reserved  and  lukewarm,  and  could 
sometimes  trace  the  shadow  of  an  inward  fretting  upon  her 
brow.  His  own  pride  took  fire  at  this,  and  frequent  and 
mutual  embarrassment  was  the  result.  At  length,  grown 
absolutely  weary  of  the  gauze-paper  miseries  and  difficul- 
ties of  their  flickering  acquaintance,  Hamond  manfully 
made  up  his  spirit  to  the  resolution  of  dissevering  or  unit- 
ing their  fortunes  for  ever. 

It  was  with  this  intention  he  now  sought  an  interview 
witli  her  at  the  house  of  her  guardian — Martha  O'Brien's 
father.  Tiie  settled  determination  of  his  purpose  had  sud- 
denly quelled  all  the  protracted  turbulence  of  the  many  im- 
pulses on  which  his  peace  had  been  tempest  tost  for  the  last 
year,  and  he  entered  the  room  with  a  composure  of  eye,  a 
steadiness  of  fi-ame,  and  a  natural  elegance  of  address,  which 


THE  HALF  SIB.  lf>7 

surprised  his  q'jiVK-cycd  friends,  and  puzzled  himself  not  a 
little.  He  thought  it  strange  that  he  should  thus,  without 
an  effort  acquire  in  a  moment  what  he  had  been  many 
month<!  toiling  to  accomplish  in  vam  ;  and  at  the  moment, 
too,  when  he  had  resii^ned  himself  to  the  belief  that  he  never 
should  attain  it. 

After  a  few  unmeaning  observations  on  the  popular  topics 
of  the  day — the  general  mourning  for  Lord  i*ielson — the 
last  Castle  drawing-room — >and  other  matters.  iMiss  O'Brien, 
acting  from  the  impulse  of  a  strong  feeling,  proposed  a  turn 
in  the  garden  to  Mr.  O'NeiJ-  wlio  had  done  notfiing  but  sit 
upnght  and  stare  at  Hamond's  Hessian  boots  (Welhngtons 
were  yet  slumbering  in  the  womb  of  time)  and  utter  a  ;  old 
"  Ha !"  whenever  the  latter  directed  himself  particuhirly 
towartls  his  side  of  the  room.  Tlie  genealogist  obeyed  tlie 
lady's  summons,  and  bowing  to  Miss  Bury,  brushed  un- 
ceremouieusly  by  the  plebeian,  and  left  iLie  apajtmcnt. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Hn  ■was  a  wiglit  of  high  renowne, 

Ard  thou  art  but  of  low  degree — 
'Tis  p"ide  that  puts  this  countrj'e  downe— 

Man,  take  thine  old  cloake  about  thee. 

Ptrci/'s  EcUcs. 

"  That,*'  said  Harnond,  leaning  over  the  back  of  his  chair, 
nd  seeming  to  speak  half  in  soliloquy,  as  lie  remained  with 
iis  eyes  fixed  on  the  door — "  that  is  one  of  the  peculiarities 
— '.he  invulnerable  privileges  of  this  polished  world,  wiiich 
;;;ike  it  SO  miserable  to  me — that  finery  of  insult  which 
1  akes  resentment  appear  ridicului  s,  and  yet  does  not  leave 
.  e  insulted  free  from  the  responsibility  of  meanness,  if  he 
ulil  remain  quiescent.  You  luuk  fretted,  Miss  Bury," 
;,ddcd  gently,  but  liinily,  "at  my  humiliation,  but  I  siiall 


,\a  Uli 
1  ,• 


108  THE  HALF  SIR. 

not  need  your  commiseration  long.     T  am  about  to  leave 
Dublin." 

"  Leave  us,  Mr,  iramond!"  said  Emily,  taken  by  surprise. 

"  Leave  Dublin^  I  said,"  resumed  Hamond. 

"  For  any  considerable  time  ?" 

"  Yes." 

There  was  an  embarrassed  pause  of  a  few  moments, 
during  which,  Hamond  seemed  to  experience  a  relapse 
into  his  natural  timidity.  At  length,  mastering  him- 
self by  a  moment's  reflection  on  the  urgency  of  the  occasion, 
he  said : — 

"If  you  think,  Miss  Bury,  that  we  are  not  likely  to  be 
interrupted,  I  have  something  very  particular  to  say  to 
you." 

Emily  was,  as  we  have  before  said,  very  young,  and 
though  she  frequently  listened  without  much  emotion  to 
the  fashionable  rhapsodies  of  those  who  thought  it  fashion- 
able to  be  her  admirers,  yet  this  was  the  first  time  that 
she  had  been  menaced  with  a  methodical  declaration:  and 
from  oi:e,  too,  so  tender,  so  delicate,  and  so  sincere.  Slie 
felt  all  the  awfulness  of  the  occasion.  Her  colour  changed 
rapidly,  and  there  was  a  troubled  consciousness  in  her 
laugh,  as  she  said,  in  assumed  levity — 

"  No  tragedy  now,  Mr.  Hamond,  let  me  entreat.  I  de- 
clare, I " 

"  0  Miss  Bury,"  said  Eugene,  smiling,  but  with  much 
seriousness  of  tone  and  look,  "  let  me  meet  aiiything  but 
trifling  now.  Hear  me  attentively,  I  beseech,  I  implore 
you.  When  we  first  met,  I  was  on  the  point  of  Hying  f  )r 
ever  from  a  world  where  I  had  exi)erienced  little  C)mfort, 
where  1  found  nothing  but  taunting  looks,  cold  and  repul- 
sive words,  and  haughty  indiffierence,  even  from  those  who, 
hke  that  man  who  just  now   left  tlie  room,  had  nothing 

more  to  allege  in  justification  of  their  unkindness  than • 

no  matter.     I  had  satisfied  myself  that  I  was  wrong  in  ever 
Supposing  that  any  circumstances  could  entitle  a  man  tu  elc- 


J 


TRE  HALF  SIR.  159 

vate  himself  above  the  rank  in  which  Heaven  had  phiccd 
hii.^ " 

"  Oh,  surely  you  were  not  wrong,  Mr.  Hamond,"  said 
Emily,  in  a  tone  of  hashful  remonstrance,  "  there  were 
circumstances — your  talents — your  education,  I  should 
say " 

"  Yes,"  said  Hamond,  "  this^  Miss  Bury,  it  was  which 
detained  me.  I  should  have  been  long  sirce  in  the  retire- 
ment of  my  native  village,  but  for  the  sweet  words  of  en- 
couragement with  which  you  honoured  me.  Your  kind- 
ness, your  condescension,  and — you  need  not  blush,  Miss 
Bury,  for  it  is  true,  or  I  would  not  ?ay  it — your  beaaty, 
too,  held  me  back  awhile,  and  enabled  me  to  endure  a  little 
longer  the  inconveniences  I  have  mentioned  to  you.  I  may 
have  been  mistaken,  nevertheless,  in  the  motive  of  that 
kindness,"  he  added  more  slowly,  and  with  great  anxiety 
of  manner.  "  Do  not  mistake  me.  Miss  Bury.  Dearly  as 
I  prized  and  treasured  every  word  and  !ook  of  kindness 
with  which  my  heart  was  soothed,  I  am  ready  to  take  all 
the  responsibility  of  my  own  mference  upon  my  own  hands. 
If  I  must  do  so,  let  me  beg  of  you  to  speak  freely.  I  love 
you  far  too  well  to  wish  that  you  should  make  the  least 
sacrifice  for  my  happiness- 


"  I  am  sure,  IMr.  Hamond,  I- 


"  Let  me  entreat  you  to  be  convinced  of  this.  Miss  Bury, 
before  you  speak.  Pray  be  confident  wi;h  me.  You 
may  find  that  I  am  not  selfish  nor  unworthy,  although" 
— Hamond  added,  after  a  pause,  "  although  you  may 
think  I  stooped  too  low  to  win  what  you  withhold  from 
me." 

The  sincerity  of  the  young  gentleman's  declaration  had 
its  efiect  on  the  mind  of  the  lady.  We  have  not  learned 
what  were  the  precise  terms  of  her  reply,  but  its  meaning 
was  evident  from  the  conduct  of  Hamond.  He  flung  him- 
self at  her  feet,  and  sufflrcd  Lis  ccstacics  to  expend  them- 
6cl\  cs  in  certain  antics  and  grimaces,  which  the  respect 


iCO  THE  HALF  SIR. 

Ciiic  to  the  cliaractcr  and  gravity  of  a  hero  forbida  i\».  as 
his  fiiend  and  historiaiT,  to  expose  to  the  public  eye. 

Wlien  Jlartha  O'Bi-icn  returned,  alone,  to  the  room 
where  she  had  left  her  fiiend,  she  found  the  latter  pale, 
trembl'ing,  and  thoughtful  (in  quite  a  different  mood  from 
that  in  which  we  have  left  her  now  accepted  lover),  her 
arm  and  forehead  resting  against  the  harp,  in  the  manner 
of  a  weeping  muse. 

"  Bless  me !  where's  Eugene  Hamond  gone  ?"  said 
]\rartlia,  casting  a  sharp  glance  at  Emily, 

"  Home,  I  believe,"  said  the  latter,  seriously. 

"  Check-mated,  I'll  lay  my  life  !" 

"  Nonsense,  Martha,  don't  be  foolish  now." 

"  Scholar's  mate,  after  all  !" 

"  Pish  !  pish!"  Emily  said,  pettishly. 

"  Well,  how  was  it,  Emily  ?  What  did  he  say  to  you  ? 
— do,  do  tell  me,  and  I  won't  say  a  word  about  the  'ripe 
peaches,' nor  the  'little  holiday,'  nor  the  'three  moves,'  ror 
the  '  drawn  game,'  nor — " 

"  Poo  !  poo  !  I  really  believe  your  little  portion  of  com- 
mon sense  is  going." 

"Well,  there!  I  won't  laugh  again — there,  now  is  a  sober 
face  for  you.    Now,  tell  me  how  it  was." 

"  'Pon  my  word,  Martha,  I  hardly  know  myself.  1 
scai'ccly  knew  where  I  was  when — I  don't  know — but  I 
bilic've  the  fellow  asked  me  to  marry  him — and — " 

"And  you but  you  look  paler,   Emily! — yon"  are 

trembling — lean  on  me — there — Vm  sure  I  would  not  have 

said  a  word  if  I  thought " 

The  strangeness  of  the  scene  which  she  had  gone  through, 
the  hurried  manner  and  intense  passion  with  which  she  had 
been  addressed,  the  importance  and  seriousness  of  the  con- 
sequences which  she  had  drawn  upon  herself,  only  now 
rushed  upon  P]mily's  mind,  and  filled  her  with  agitation. 
She  drew  a  long,  deep  sigh,  and,  flinging  her  arms  around 
the  neck  of  her  young  friend,  wept  aloud  upon  her  bosom. 


THE  HALF  SIR.  161 

Many  of  our  sensible  readers  may  wonder  at  all  this,  but 
every  girl  as  young  as  Emily  will  feel  that  we  are  telling 
the  truth. 

There  is  a  pleasure  to  those  who  are  possessed  of  facul- 
ties microscopical  enough  for  the  investigation,  In  tracing 
up  to  their  first  cause  the  thousand  impulses  which  govern 
the  actions  of  that  sex  who  are  most  the  creatures  ot  im- 
pulse— in  winding  through  the  secret  recesses  of  the  female 
heart,  and  detecting  in  the  very  centre  of  the  "  soft  laby- 
rinth" the  hidden  feeling,  whatever  it  is,  which  dictates 
the  (to  us)  unaccountable  caprices  we  are  so  frequently 
made  to  suffer  under,  and  which  does  its  work  so  privately 
that  even  they,  the  victims  of  its  influence  and  the  slaves 
of  its  will,  seem  almost  unconscious  of  its  existence.  Few, 
however,  are  gifted  with  the  fineness  of  penetiation  requi- 
site for  such  delicate  scrutiny,  and  we  are  too  honest  and 
charitable  to  wish  to  be  among  the  number.  Neither,  per- 
haps, IS  precision  requisite  for  our  purpose,  whose  business 
is  rather  with  action  than  with  motive,  and  wJiose  part  it 
is  merely  to  submit  a  certain  train  of  results  which  are  to 
be  accounted  for,  and  acknowledged  or  rejected,  by  the 
philosophy,  the  feeling,  and  the  imagination  of  the  reader. 
We  shall  not,  therefore,  attempt  any  laboured  analysis  of 
'the  new  causes  of  disngreement  which  speedily  sprung  up 
between  the  lovers,  after  every  thing  appeared  to  have  been 
so  smoothly  arranged  between  them,  after  the  consent  of 
Emily's  guardian  had  been  obtained,  and  even  Mr.  O'Xeil 
had  began  to  reason  himself  into  a  toleration  of  the  young 
nabob.  Hamond's  i-eady  talking  had  taken  Emily  quite  by 
surprise ;  and  it  is  pretty  certain  that  if  she  had  been  left 
a  longer  time  to  deliberate,  tiamond  would  have  been  put 
to  a  longer  term  of  probation.  She  felt  vexed  with  her  own 
easiness,  and  a  little  alarmed  at  the  inference  her  lover 
might  draw  from  it.  She  had  not  done  justice  to  her  own 
value.  Besides,  Hamond's  ■v\ay  of  love-making  was  any 
thing,  she  persuaded  herself,  but  flattering  to  her  desire  of 


162  THE  HALF  SIR. 

influence.  He  had  not  sufficiently  kept  her  snperiority  in 
mind — he  had  been  so  impudently  collected  and  sensible^ 
so  presumptuously  self-possessed.  The  more  she  thought 
on  the  subject  the  more  convinced  she  was  of  the  necessity 
of  impressing  hitn  with  a  proper  sense  of  the  honour  he  had 
obtained. 

The  means  whicii  she  adopted  to  accomplish  this,  howevei', 
were  not  the  happiest  in  the  world.  Hamond  vvas  not  much 
struck  by  the  pettish  and  sometimes  rather  cold  manner  in 
which  she  was  accustomed  to  receive  him,  as  there  was  no- 
body more  disposed  to  make  allowances  for  the  influence  of 
a  peculiar  education  ;  but  when  he  observed  indications  of 
a  marked  haughtiness  in  her  demeanour,  when  she  began 
to  speak  fluently  of  genealogies  in  his  presence,  to  quote 
Mannontel  and  D^  Lohne  on  the  advantage  of  titles,  to  talk 
pntliet'c.illy  of  ill-30ited  matches,  of  poor  Addison  and  his 
high-born  dowager — he  felt  as  if  a  new  ligi.t,  or  rather  a 
new  darkness,  were  rushing  into  his  soul.  He  hushed  up 
his  feelings,  however,  with  the  utmost  caution,  resolving  to 
creep  unawares  and  with  a  velvet  footstep  into  the  very 
centre  of  her  character,  and  shape  his  conduct  according  to 
the  conformations  which  would  be  there  revealed  to  him. 

"  I  begin  to  believe,"  said  he,  "  that  1  was  mistaken  in 
supposing  that  there  could  even  be  an  exception  to  the 
general  position,  that  it  is  as  easy  to  brush  the  shades  of 
her  phases  from  the  moon's  disk  as  to  sift  out  tlie  draff  of 
pride  and  coldness  from  high  birth.  My  single  lonely  in- 
stance begins  to  fail  me.     I  will  try  it  farther,  however." 

Hamond  thus  proceeded,  hiding  his  apprehension  of  her 
mcaiiing  from  her,  and  consequently  drawing  her  out  every 
day  into  more  decided  slights  and  sneers.  He  had  almost 
niada  up  his  mind  on  the  subject,  when,  one  evening,  as  he, 
was  sitting  by  her  side  at  a  small  jjarty  ot  fiiends,  souie 
of  whom  had  come  to  town  for  the  purpose  of  assisting  at 
the  nuptial  ceremony,  the  conversation  happeued  to  turn 
oa  the  comic  peculiarities  of  our  friend  Ke.iiuiy  O'Lone. 


THE  HALF  SIR.  1 03 

"  0,  he's  tlie  ilrollest  creature  in  the  world,"  said  Emil}'. 

He  never  troubles  hiuiself  to  inquire  what  the  object 
niny  be  of  any  commission  that  he  receives,  but  just  (Lies 
whatever  you  asic  him,  hlce  a  clock,  not  out  of  stupidity 
neither,  but  merely  from  a  wii^h  to  steer  clear  of  any  re- 
sponsibility to  himself.  It  was  only  a  week  since,  Ha- 
niond  told  him,  as  he  was  going  to  bed  at  niglit,  that  he 
would  want  to  send  him  here  to  Miss  Bury  in  the  morning, 
expecting  of  course  that  poor  IJemmy  Avould  ask  to  know 
Lis  message  in  the  morning,  before  he  set  off.  But  Remmy 
Avould  not  ask.  Not  he,  indeed.  He  was  here  with  me  at 
the  'first  light,'  as  he  said  himself.  '  AVell,  Eemmy,'  said 
I.  '  what  brought  you  here  so  early  ?'  '  Whethin,  I  dun 
know,  j\liss,'  says  Ilemmy,  '  but  the  master  told  me  he'd 
want  me  to  step  over  to  your  honour  to  dny  mornen,  so  I 
thought  most  likely,  Miss,  you  must  know  what  is  it 
ail'dcd  him.'  Hamond  was  telling  me  a  still  more  curious 
anecdote  about  him.  He  was  sent  once  to  a  fair  in  Mun- 
ster,  the  fair  of  Ilanna — Veuna — Shana — what  was  it, 
llamond?" 

"  Shanagnlden,"  said  Eugene,  bowing  and  smiling. 

*'  0  yes,  the  fair  of  Shanagolden.  His  mistress  wanted 
to  purdiase  half  a  dozen  mug — hog — pig." 

'•'■  P'lgjins,  they  were,"  said  Hamond  in  reply  to  her 
puz/Jed  look,  "  p-i-g  pig,  g-i-n-s  gins,  piggins,"  spelling 
thv  w.ird,  to  show  how  coolly  and  equably  he  took  it.  "A 
kind  of  wooden  vessel  used  for  drinking  the  coagulated 
residuum  of  milk,  called  by  the  peasantry  thick,  or  skim- 
med nidk." 

"  Yes,"  added  Enrly.  "  Well,  his  mistress  desired 
Eemmy  to  purcha  e  hall  a  dozen  piggins,  and  provided  h'ln 
with  money  for  those  as  well  as  many  other  aiticles.  Siie 
v/as  rather  an  anxious  poor  lady,  however,  and  fearing  that 
Remmy  n;ight  Lrget  his  message,  charged  about  a  dozen 
other  friends  of  hers,  who  were  also  going  to  the  fair,  to 
re|jcat  it  to  him  if  they  should  come  in  contact  with  hini. 


1G4  THE  HALF  SIR. 

They  all  dirl  so,  as  it  linppened,  and  Rommy,  determined 
to  punish  the  good  lady  for  her  distrust  in  his  talents,  took 
each  as  a  separate  message,  and  came  home  in  the  evening 
as  heavily  loaded  with  piggins  as  Moses  Primrose  with  his 
green  spectacles." 

After  the  merriment  which  was  occasioned  by  Emily's 
arch  manner  and  the  exquisite  imitation,  which  she  con- 
trived to  introduce,  of  Ilamond's  native  diidect,  had  sub- 
sided, some  one  asked  who  this  Ilemmy  O'Lone  was  ? 

"  0  'pon  my  honour,  that  %vould  puzzle  the  heralds  tliem- 
selves  to  tell  you,  I  believe,"  said  Emily,  rapidly  and  lively. 
"  Who  is  he,  Hamond  ?    No  relation  of  ours  V 

The  moment  she  had  uttered  the  words,  she  would  have 
given  a  great  deal  that  it  had  been  in  her  power  to  unsay 
them.  Ninety-nine  men  in  a  hundred  might  have  pi!S-ed 
over  the  jest,  but  she  ought  to  have  known  enough  of 
Ilainond  to  judge  that  he  would  be  the  hundredth  man  in 
the  case.  Even  those  of  the  company,  who  secretly  en- 
joyed her  little  cuts  at  Hamond,  looked  grave  and  silent  at 
this  broad  insult.  The  young  man  himself  grew  pale  and 
red,  attempted  to  say  something  good  humoured  in  reply, 
but  his  voice  failed  him,  the  mirth  stuck  in  his  throat — 
and  fell  back  upon  his  heart  in  a  burning  flood  of  gal!  and 
bitterness.  He  did  not  attempt  to  speak  again — and  the 
general  tone  of  the  conversation  acquired  an  air  of  restraint 
and  av/kwardness,  which  was  still  more  observable  in  the 
portion  that  Emily  contributed  to  it  than  in  any  other. 
Hamond  addressed  himself,  during  the   remainder  of  the 

evening,   to  Martha  O'Brien,   while  young  E took 

place  by  the  side  of  Emil}',  and  succeeded  in  persuading 
himself,  notwithslanding  her  occasional  fits  of  absence  and 
indirect  answers,  that  he  had  made  more  way  in  her  esti- 
niatiun  on  this  night  than  on  any  other  since  he  had 
achieved  the  honour  of  her  acquaintance.  His  assiduity, 
however,  was  absolute  torture  to  Emily,  who  was  anxiuu>iy 
looking  out  for  an  opportunity  of  doing  away  the  unkind- 


THE  HALF  SIR.  IGS 

ness  slie  bad  bluudcred  upon.  None  occiuTed.  Once  only 
as  she  glanced  towards  liim  she  met  Martlia's  eyes,  who 
compressed  her  lips,  raised  her  hand  slightly,  and  tossed 
her  head,  as  mncli  as  to  say,  "  You  have  done  il  /"  to 
vhich  Emily's  frightened  smile  as  plainly  responded — 
'•  Done  what  V 

The  company  at  length  separated.  Haniond  shook 
hands  with  Miss  O'lirien,  bowed  formally  to  Emily,  and 
hunied  out  of  the  house,  appearing  not  to  notice  the  slight 
action  which  the  latter  used  to  detain  him.  This  indica- 
tion was  too  palpable  to  be  misconceived.  Emily  clasped 
her  hands,  pressed  one  against  her  brow,  shuddered  a  little, 
and  did  not  speak  during  that  night. 

When  she  arose  the  next  morning,  the  following  letter 
lay  among  others  on  her  toilet.  A  fearful  misgiving  clung 
about  her  heart  as  she  recognised  the  hand.  Slie  made 
the  door  fast,  and  prepared  herself  by  summoning  all  her 
pride  to  her  assistance,  before  she  ventured  to  break  the 
seal.     The  contents  were  simply  these : — 

"  Foi  the  last  week  1  have  been  led  to  think,  oy  your 
demeanour  towards  me,  that  the  consent  with  which  you 
honoured  me  was  the  eifoct  rather  ot  a  hurried  and  momen- 
tary kindness  than  of  the  free  and  settled  atfcction  which 
could  only  make  it  dear  to  me.  1  had,  therefore,  intended 
to  restore  it  to  you  before  last  night ;  altliough,  I  believe, 
you  will  do  me  the  justice  to  acknowledge  that  I  abstained 
(in  violence  to  my  own  heart)  from  using  any  of  the  privi- 
liges  of  passion  in  seeking  it,  and  appealed  rather  to  your 
rc-ason  than  your  feeling  throughout.  iJut  a  circumstance 
which  took  place  last  night,  and  which,  I  suppose,  you  re- 
member, has  shown  me  (I  say  this  alter  much  reflection) 
that  ours  would  not,  under  any  circumstances,  be  a  fortu- 
nate union.  The  woman  who  can  wound  the  feelings  of  her 
lover  can  hardly  be  expected  to  respect  those  of  her  hus 
baud.     1  thought  too,  that  I  could  discern  a  caute  for 


166  THE  HALF  SIR. 

your  demeanour  towaiJs  me.  I  wish  not  that  my  own 
scllish  aHl'Ctions  should  interfere  with  thztt.  Mine  must  be 
a  bitter  tlite  tVom  hcncefortii,  Eioily,  but  I  had  rather  en- 
dure it  all  than  make  it  light  and  happy  at  the  expense  of 
your  inclinations.  I  return  to  my  humble  station  with  a 
wiser  head  and  a  heavier  heart  than  when  I  left  it.  I  go 
from  the  scorn  of  the  rich  to  the  pity  of  the  poor,  from 
the  busy  mirth  of  this  fascinating  world  to  the  lowliness  ot 
my  provincial  life,  to  the  solitude  of  a  fireside  that  I  once 
fondly  dreamed  would  be  a  happy  one,  but  which  must 
now  remain  for  ever  desolate.  Farewell,  Emily,  and  m:iy 
your  high-born  lover  be  as  truly,  as  tenderly,  and  devotedly 
attached  to  you  as  I  would  have  been." 

What  cause  ? — That  ! — What  ?  were  the  first  ques- 
tions which  Emily  asked  in  communion  with  her  own  heart 
after  she  had  perused  the  letter.  The  natural  quickness  of 
h(!r  woman's  apprehension,  however,  enabled  her  to  clear 
up  the  mystery,  and  no  sooner  was  it  visible  than  slie  has- 
tened to  remedy  the  error  which  she  had  committud.  A 
short  struggle  only  took  place  between  her  Irish  pride  and 
her  Irish  love,  and  the  latter  (as  is  indeed  generally  the  re- 
sult of  such  encounters)  bore  away  the  palm.  She  wrute 
as  follows : — 

"  The  circumstance  to  which  you  allude  was  not  so  entirely 
premeditated  as  you  imagine.  I  acKnowledge  that  1  have 
committed  an  error,  for  which  I  am  sincerely  sorry.  Be- 
lieve me,  I  did  not  mean  to  do  anything  so  unkind  to  my- 
self as  to  make  you  seriously  uneasy  for  a  moment.  Pray 
come  to  nie,  Eugene,  and  I  wiil  engage  to  convince  you 
ot  this,  ily  heart  will  not  be  at  peace  till  1  have  liad 
your  forgiveness.  It  was  a  light  sin  for  so  heavy  a  retalia- 
tion as  }ou  threaten  me  with.  Once  again,  come  hiiher 
quickly.  E.  B. 

"•  Tiie  cause  which  you  speak  of  is  so  wholly  without 
foundation,  tiiat  it  was  a  considerable  time  before  I  could 


THE  HALF  SIR.  1G7 

even  form  a  wild  conjecture  at  the  import  of  that  part  of 
your  letter." 

When  Emily  had  this  letter  folded,  she  rung  for  her  at- 
tendant and  sent  her  for  a  taper. 

"  Who  brought  this,  Nelly  ?"  she  asked  as  the  Intter 
(a  rather  unflishionable  soubrette,  but  retained  on  the  en- 
treaty of  her  mother,  Emily's  nurse)  re-entered  the  room 
with  a  light. 

"  Misther  O'Lone,  Miss,"  said  Nelly. 

"  Is  he  gone  ?" 

"  0  no.  Miss, — he's  below  in  the  servants'  hall,  aten  a 
taste." 

"  I  do  not  like,"  said  her  mistress,  holding  the  letter  in 
her  hand  as  if  hesitating — "  to  commit  it  to  his  keeping. 
He's  such  a  stupid  fellow,  that  he  may  lose  it." 

"  They  belies  him  that  toult  you  so,  Miss,  saven  your 
presence,"  said  Nelly,  with  an  indignant  toss  of  her  head. 
"  May  be  a  little  o'  I'emmy's  sense  'ud  be  wanten  to  them 
that  wor  so  free  wit  their  tongue." 

"  It  !G  well  that  he  has  so  good  a  friend  to  see  justice 
done  to  his  name,"  said  Emily,  lowering  her  eyelids  and 
smiling  on  her  young  handmaid,  who  blushed  deeply. 

"  0  fait.  Miss,  it's  no  great  friends  he  has  in  me,  only 
the  crachtcr  tlioy  gives  of  him  that  knows  him  best,"  said 
Nelly. 

"  Well,  I  will  try  him  on  your  commendation,  Nelly.  In 
the  servants'  hall,  do  you  say  ?" 

"  Iss,  Miss,  I'll  scud  him  out  upon  the  landen-place  to 
you." 

AVhen  licnimy  was  summoned  from  his  conifortable  seat 
by  the  great  coal  fire,  he  started  up  hastily,  laid  down  the 
cup  of  tea  which  he  had  been  drinking,  smoothed  his  hair 
over  his  brow,  and  anxiously  clearing  all  appearances  of 
the  amusement  in  which  he  had  been  indulging  from  his 
outwai'd  man,  he  hurried  towards  the  door.     As  he  laid 


1  68  THE  HALF  Sin. 

Ilis  liand  on  the  liandlc,  lie  suddenly  turned  round,  and  in 
a  countenance  of  much  alarm,  asked  : — • 

"  I  wouldn't  have  the  sign  o'  liquor  on  me,  Nelly  ? 
would  I  ?"* 

"  Is  it  after  the  tay  you'd  have  it,  you  innocent  ?"  said 
Nelly,  smiling  in  scorn  at  his  simplicity. 

Rcmmy  did  not  stop  to  dispute  the  matter  with  her,  but 
liurrled  into  the  hall,  where  lie  found  Emily  standing  on 
the  staircase,  and  expecting  him.  He  turned  out  his  toes, 
made  his  best  bow,  and  then  fixed  himself  in  an  attitude  of 
the  deepest  attention,  his  head  thrust  forward  and  thrown 
slightly  on  one  side,  so  as  to  bring  both  eyes  into  a  parallel 
line  with  hers,  his  ears  elevated,  and  his  mouth  half  open, 
as  if  he  were  endeavouring  to  receive  her  commands  at 
every  possible  aperture  of  his  senses. 

"  Keinniy,"  said  the  young  lady,  "  I  w  ish  you  to  take  this 
letter  to  your  master — " 

"  Iss,  Miss " 

"  Stay  a  moment — " 

*'0  why  shouldn't  I,  Miss.     I'd  do  anything  in  the- 


"  I'm  convinced  of  that,  Remmy,  but  I  only  wish  you 
to  attend  to  me — " 

"  Oh  then  I'll  engage  I  will.  Miss.  Well,  sure  I'm 
lioulden  me  tongue  now  any  way,"  he  added,  as  another 
imjiatient  gesture  from  Eniily  solicited  his  attention. 

"  Give  that  letter  safe,  Remmy  ;  and  here,  I  have  given 
you  a  great  deal  of  trouble  lately,  you  will  buy  something 
with  these,"  putting  into  his  hand  a  number  of  the  small 
notes  which  were  current  at  the  time.  "  Take  care  of  the 
letter,"  she  added,  as  she  tripped  up  stairs,  leaving  Remmy 
fixed  in  a  position  of  comic  wonder  and  gratitude. 

"One,  two,  three,  four — an'  a  pound — five,  si:<  !  Six 
three-and-nine-penny  notes,  and  a  pound!"  he  exclaimed, 
as  he  stood  on  the  brick  floor  of  the  servants'  hall,  counting 

*  WouU  I  have ^  or  would  you  have?  among  the  lower  Irisll 
means,  have  I'?  or  have  you? 


THE  HALF  SIR.  1C3 

the  paper?  as  he  folded  them,  and  buned  them  in  the  bot- 
tomless .niid  sunless  caveru  of  his  livery  pocket.  "Now, 
Nelly,  we'll  be  sayensomethen,  yourself  and  myself.  Would 
you  have  a  hand  of  a  needle  and  thread  you'd  give  nie. 

"  For  what,  Hemmy,  honey  ?"  said  the  young  soubrette, 
with  the  utmost  graciousness  of  tone  and  manner. 

•'  To  put  a  stitch  in  the  pocket  o'  my  coat  then,"  said 
Eemmy,  "  in  dread  I'd  lose  the  little  writing  she  gay  me 
out  of  it,  asthora-machree,  you  wor!  i\n'  indeed,  it  isn't 
the  only  stitch*  I'll  have  about  me,  Nelly,"  he  added  with 
a  tender  smile,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart. 

"  Tlicre's  no  standen  you  at  all,  Remmy,  you're  such  a 
lad  !  AVell,  aisy,  aisy  a  while  an  I'll  get  it  foj  you."  And 
favouring  him  with  one  of  her  ricliest  smiles,  she  left  the 
hall. 

"  No,  then,  but  there's  no  standen  you  for  a  cute  lady," 
her  swain  s;iid  in  soliloquy,  with  a  hard  smile,  a  knowing 
wink,  and  a  shake  of  the  head  that  had  almost  as  much 
meaning  in  it  as  my  Lord  Burleigh's.  "  Isn't  it  sweet  she  is 
grown  upon  me  all  in  a  hurry,  now  the  moment  she  sees  I 
have  the  money.  Ah,  these  women !  There's  no  end  to  'em 
at  all,  that's  what  there  isn't.  A  while  ago  whin  I  hadn't  as 
much  as  'ud  pay  turnpike  for  a  walken  stick — when  my 
pockets  were  so  low  that  if  you  danced  a  hornpipe  in  one  of 
'em,  you  wouldn't  break  your  shins  against  a  haip'ny — then 
'twas  all  on  the  high  hoise  with  her,"  elevating  his  head 
and  waving  his  hand  in  imitative  disdain.  "  Nolly  me  Dan 
Jerry  !  Who  daar  say  black  is  the  white  o'  me  eye  ?  and 
now,  the  minute  the  money  comes,  I'll  be  bail  she  turns  over 
a  new  lafe.  They  may  get  the  bottom  of  the  Devil's  Punch 
Bowl  in  Killarney,  or  the  Poui  Dhub  of  Knockfierna,  or  the 
Bay  o'  Biscay,  that  they  says  hasn't  e'er  a  bottom  at  all  to 
id,  only  all  water  intirely ;  but  the  man  that  '11  get  to  the 
rights  of  a  woman  will  go  a  start  deeper  than  any  of  'em, 
I'm  ihioken.  The  boysf  arn't  equal  at  all  for  'em  that  way 
•  Stitch— any  iixteraal  pain.  f  Meu. 


170  THE  HALF  SIR. 

in  taken  your  measure  as  it  ware  Avit'  a  look,  while  you'd  bo 
thiiiken  o'  notlien,  and  tliinkun  they  wor  tliinken  o'  notlien, 
but  'tis  they  that  woukl  all  the  while  ;  but  it's  only  fair, 
poor  craturs,"  he  added  with  a  compassionate  and  tolerating 
tone — "  as  they're  wake  one  way,  they  ought  to  be  strong 
another,  or  else  sure  they'd  be  murdered  intirely.  Tliey 
couldn't  stand  the  place  at  all  for  the  boys,  af  they  hadn't 
a  vacancy  at  'em  that  way  in  'cuteness,  inwardly.  Murder! 
murder!  but  it's  they  that  does  come  round  uz  in  one  way 

or   another Ah  !    the    girl   in    the   gap,   an'  duck  o' 

diamonds  you  wor,"  he  added,  rapidly  changing  his  manner, 
as  Nelly  re-en(ered  with  the  needle  and  tlu\ad — "  Talkcn 
of  you  to  meself  I  was,  while  you  wor  away,  I'm  so  fond  o* 
you.  Imaging  your  pcckthur  to  myself,  as  it  ware,  in  my 
own  mind."  And  laying  the  letter  on  the  window,  while 
he  took  off  his  coat,  for  the  more  convenience,  he  proceeded 
with  Nelly's  assistance  to  incarcerate  the  precious  epistle. 

In  a  few  minutes  a  line  of  circumvallation  was  drawn 
around  the  fortified  receptacle,  and  Remmy  having  satisfied 
himself  that  no  possi'')le  point  of  egress  or  ingress  was  left 
undefended,  took  a  moving  farewell  of  Nelly,  and  hastened 
to  acquit  himself  of  the  responsibility  wliich  he  had  taken 
upon  liis  shoulders.  We  shall  see  how  he  ucquitled  him- 
self iu  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER  V. 

These  women  are  strange  things. 
'Tis  sometliing  of  the  latest  uuw  to  weeii — 
You  should  have  wept  when  he  was  going  from  yon, 
And  cLuiiii'd  him  with  those  tears  at  home. 

— Scornful  Lady. 

The  danger  and  inconvenience  of  extremes,  are,  I  believe, 
coeval  with  men's  experience.  Had  Emily  left  Remuiy  to 
the  guidance  of  his  own  natural  share  of  prudence,  tho 
great  probability  is  that  her  letter  would  have  reached  its 


THE  HALF  SIR.  171 

destination  in  perfect  safety ;  but  the  extreme  vigilance 
wliicli  plie  induced  !iim  to  exercise,  greatly  lessened  the  num- 
ber of  chances  in  its  favour.  He  certaiidy  did  not  once 
cease  thinking  of  it  from  the  moment  he  left  the  house  until 
he  arrived  at  his  master's  door.  lie  selected  the  shortest 
way — avoided  the  crowds — manfully  refused  two  invitations 
to  '  step  in  an'  take  a  mornen'  from  different  friends — 
and  kept  liis  hand  continually  hovering  about  the  pocket  in 
Avhich  the  important  charge  was  deposited.  His  surprise, 
therefore,  was  extreme,  when,  just  before  he  ventured  to 
awaken  the  slumbering  echoes  of  the  area  and  coal  vault, 
he  found  on  examination  that  the  letter  was  gone. 

Enigmatical  as  this  may  appear  to  the  reader,  it  did  not 
long  continue  so  to  Rcmmy,  who  discovered  very  speedily 
that  amid  all  his  great  caution,  while  he  had  sewed  up  the 
pocket  so  securely,  he  never  once  thought  of  putting  the 
letter  into  it.  Rapid  as  his  progress  was  in  advance,  the 
rate  at  which  he  retraced  his  steps  was  a  great  deal  mora 
expeditious  ;  and  he  arrived  with  his  face  glowing  in  anx- 
iety, and  moist  with  perspiration,  at  ls\v.  O'Brien's  liouse. 
He  tapped  at  the  window — rushed  past  Nelly,  into  the  ser- 
vant'b  hall — the  window  where  he  had  laid  it  Avas  still  open 
— the  letter  had  vanished.  He  clasped  his  hands  and  ut- 
tered a  groan,  such  as  in  the  recesses  of  Warwick-lane, 
the  sturdy  bullock  utters,  after  it  has  received  the  cou})  de 
grace,  from  the  practised  arm  of  the  victualler. 

"Nelly,  we're  done  for  ! — I  lost  the  letter.  You  wouldn't 
have  it,  would  you?" — You  wouldn't  see  it  after  me  there 
upon  the  windy  ?" 

"Fait  an'  I'm  sure  dat  I  didn't,  Remmy." 

Another  groan.  "  An'  after  all  the  charges  she  gay,  me 
about  it.  1  wouldn't  f  vce  her  wit  sech  a  story  for  the  world. 
Lord  direct  them  that  tuk  it,  whoamsocver  they  wor,  but 
they  did  great  harm,  this  mornen." 

"■  T'would  be  better  say  nott'n  at  ail  about  it,  may  be 
Remmy," 


173  THE  HALF  Sin. 

"AYIio  linows  but  it's  true  for  you?  I  wouldn't  tell  lier- 
self  such  a  foolish  thing  as  that  1  lost  it,  for  the  world. 
I'll  tell  you  how  it  is,  Nelly.  Better  lave  it  to  'emselves, 
ch  ? — Them  bits  o'  writen  they  do  be  senden  one,  one  to 
another,  is  nothen,  you  see,  but  love  letters,  that  way,  and 
sure  it's  no  loss  what  was  in  that  scrap  of  i  apcr  when  they'd 
be  niariied  shortly  foi  life." 

"True  for  you,  lvemn\y." 

"  May  be  they  wouldn't  talk  of  it  at  all  whin  they'd 
meet,  an'  if  they  did  itself,  sure  all  that'll  be  about  it  is  a 
scolden,  the  same  as  I'd  get  now  af  I  toult  it.  Do  you  sec 
now,  Nelly,  honey  ?" 

"  Oh  iss,  an'  I  think  it  stands  wit  raison  what  you  say, 
Rcmmy.  There'd  be  no  ho  wit  her,  sure,  after  given  you 
the  notes  an'  all,"  said  Nelly,  who  felt  hersidf  in  some  de- 
gree implicated  in  the  transaction  by  her  advenlurous  and 
unlia|ipily  too  enthusiastic  estimation  of  the  value  of  her 
lover's  head.    "  I  wouldn't  face  her  after  the  notes,  any  w  ay.''- 

''  May  be  to  take  'em  of*  me  she  would,  eh  ?"  said 
Kemmy,  in  additional  alarm. 

"  0  she's  too  much  of  a  lady  for  that,  but  indeed  she 
would  begridge  that  it  was  themselves  wint  in  place  o'  de 
letter." 

It  was  finally  arranged  between  them  that  Hamoud 
should  leain  nothing  of  the  letter  from  Kemmy,  and,  if  pos- 
sible, that  its  miscarriage  should  be  also  kept  secret  frum 
Miss  Bury. 

Notwithstanding  the  tone  of  his  letter,  which  in  reality 
he  more  than  half  believed,  Ilamond  was  not  prepared 
to  be  taken  so  immediately  at  his  word  as  Emily  appealed 
by  her  silence  to  have  done.  The  certainty  of  his  fate, 
moreover,  was  confirmed  to  him  by  the  flourishing  account 
Kemmy  gave  of  the  jecund  health  i-.nd  spirits  in  which  he 
had  lelt  the  young  lady  ;  the  brogue-footed  Mercury  con- 
ceiving that  he  could  not  better  supply  the  loss  of  the  let- 
•  From. 


THE  HALF  SIR.  175 

tor  than  by  commnnicating  all  the  p^easnig  inteliigonco  his 
own  observation  or  invontiou  could  furnish. 

Vriuitever  Eniily's  feelings  were  on  the  receipt  of  Ha- 
mond's  letter — how  deep  soever  the  regret  and  remorse 
which  it  awakened  witiiin  her  spirit ;  how  fierce  soever  (he 
struggle  which  she  had  to  sustain  against  her  rouscd-iip 
pride,  it  may  readily  be  supposed  tliat  the  apparently  con- 
temptuous silence  with  which  her  last,  gentle,  tender,  and 
(in  her  own  judgnieni)  luimiliating  confcssiim  was  treated, 
was  not  cnlciilated  to  alleviate  the  convulsion  in  her  mind. 
The  first  day  passed  over  in  anxious  vigilance,  the  next  in 
anger  and  deep  offence,  the  third  in  wild  alarm,  the  fourth 
in  awe-struck,  deadly  certainty  of  misery — for  proud  and 
high-h'earted  as  she  was,  the  fate  which  she  so  unwittingly 
earned  for  herself  was  misery  to  her.  A  week  passed  au  ay, 
but  no  ILimond,  nor  no  indicatiju  of  his  existence  arrived 
at  lier  guardian's  liouse. 

It  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  costly  charges  atten- 
dant on  the  maintenance  of  pri.le,  that  its  votaries  relin- 
quish all  claim  to  the  comf  rts  of  Iiunmn  sympathy.  When 
it  happens  moreover  (as  unfortunately  was  the  case  in  tiie 
instance  of  Emily  Bury)  tliat  tliis  dearly  purchased  folly  is 
lodged  in  a  bosom  otlieruise  filled  with  gentle  and  softening 
affectiiins,  the  cruel  tyranny  which  it  exercises  over  tiieni 
is  sufficient  to  make  life  a  protracted  sickness  under  any 
circumstances,  and  more  especially  so  when  the  sutferer  is 
compelled  to  be  his  own  only  comforter — to  nourish  the  lonely 
smothering  agony  witiiiu  his  heart,  and  make  it  his  sole 
care  to  confine  the  flame  that  is  secretly  making  ashes  of 
his  peace,  so  that  it  shall  be  evident  through  no  clink  or 
cleft  in  his  demeanour.  Both  the  pride  and  the  alKction 
of  our  heroine  received  a  violent  stimulus  from  this  demele 
witli  lier  lover.  When  she  stooped  so  low  as  to  solicit  lu'a 
forgiveness  in  the  terms  wiiicli  she  used,  she  had  uot  the  re- 
motest possible  apprehension  that  her  cundefCension  ci)u!d 
,be  unappreciated  or  iuelllctual.  if  the  question  had  ever  oc- 


1 74  THE  HALF  sin. 

cnrri'd  to  her  raiiid  by  accident,  it  is  not  easy  to  cnnjcctnra 
wlietiier  the  letter  would  ever  have  been  foiwarded.  I5ut 
she  wrote  in  an  interval  of  lucid  kindness  and  natural  gene- 
rosity— love's  bounty  was  at  the  moment  unchecked  by  the 
caution  of  her  cold  ruling  passion — she  wished  to  make 
Hanumd  an  ample  compensation  for  the  unkinduess  of 
v.'hich  he  complained.  She  pictured  to  her  own  heart  the 
gushing  rapture,  the  tears  of  love,  of  gratitude,  and  ecstacy 
which  should  for  ever  wash  away  the  remembrance  of  that 
single  blot  in  their  affection — that  unhappy  j;ir,  which, 
however,  she,  in  the  fond  confidence  of  her  sanguine  love, 
taught  her  judgment  to  regard  only  as  one  of  those  useful 
niisiuiderstandings  vvliich  make  the  hearts  of  lovers  more 
closely  acquainted  than  ever — a  momentary  shadow — a 
trimming  of  the  lamp  whicli  would  eventually  serve  only 
to  strengthen  and  puriiy  its  flame.  She  had  no  fear  that 
Hamond  really  intended  to  extinguish  it — and  when  that 
fear  aid  con»e  u|)ou  her  heart,  darkness  deep  and  absolute 
came  and  abode  there  with  it. 

She  had  not  even  the  consolation  of  her  friend  Martha's 
confidence  :  and  the  easy  hr.penetrable  indiiiercnce  which 
the  latter  (though  by  no  means  dull  of  inference  or  appre- 
hension) observed  in  all  Emily's  conduct,  induced  her  to 
believe  that  in  reality  the  ciicumstaiice  did  not  clash  in  any 
degree  with  her  inclinations.  Still,  however,  she  was  totally 
at  a  loss  to  discover  a  motive  for  the  conduct  of  her  young 
fiiend.  It  was  true  that  the  latter,  who  would  not  permit 
a  single  inquiry  or  even  remark  at  all  verging  on  the  sub- 
ject, received  the  visits  of  the  young  Baron  E ,  but 

she  could  not  by  this  manoeuvre  hoodwink  Martha  so  com- 
pletely as  to  prevent  her  seeing  that  it  was  a  mere  feiut — • 
a  mask,  iinda*  cover  of  whicli  some  concealed  and  lurking 
passion  was  laying  the  foundation  of  a  far  different  fortune 
ibr  its  victim.  So  far  was  the  hauglity  young  Irishwoman 
enabled  to  conquer  her  own  nature,  that  she  was  much  K'ss 
frequently  to  bc  found  alone  than  usual ;  she  forced  herself 


THE  HALF  SIR.  175 

into  the  glare  and  bustle  of  society,  for  feai  the  slightest 
ground  of  suspicion  miglit  be  aftbrded  that  she  could  tor  a 
moment  descend  to  the  consciousness  of  a  natural  emotion  ; 
her  smiles  were  showered  around  in  greater  jjrofusion  than 
before ;  carmine  and  all  the  precious  succedanea  of  the 
period  were  anxiously  made  to  tread  in  the  steps  of  her  de- 
parting bloom,  and  render  its  flight  as  seciet  and  impercep  • 
tible  as  that  of  the  peace  of  mind  on  which  it  had  been 
nurtured  :  her  mirth  was  louder  (if  loud  it  could  be  at  any 
time)  tiian  before;  and  many  even  of  her  most  intimate 
friends  began  to  congratulate  her  on  her  enfrarichi-ement 
from  what  now  appeared  to  have  been  a  weary  thraldom. 
Amid  all  ih;s  proud  superiority  of  mind,  however,  Emily 
was  a  more  real  object  of  compassion  than  the  most  yield- 
ing, and  helpless,  and  forsaken  of  her  sex  ;  and  she  c  nild 
not  have  brought  her  spirit  to  bear  its  burthen  so  endur- 
ingly,  but  for  the  resentment  which  the  positive  injustice 
with  whicli  her  letter  had  been  treated  by  Hamond,  excited 
in  her  mind,  and  to  which  she  constantly  referred  her  heart 
in  moments  of  de])ie>sion.  When  a  little  time  rolled  by, 
however,  and  regret  began  to  assume  the  mastery  over 
anger,  she  fuund  the  task  of  dissimulation  more  burihen- 
some  than  before.  V/hen  she  happened  to  be  left  for  any 
time  to  the  company  of  her  own  feelings,  they  would  rush 
upon  her  with  sucii  an  o'er- mastering  influence  as  to  quiie 
subdue  lier  resolution,  and  drag  her  down  to  the  level  of 
plain  humanity,  in  her  own  despite,  iler  bosom  would 
heave,  her  frame  would  tremble,  and  the  pent-up  sorrow 
swell  and  labour  in  her  throat,  until  the  approach  of  some 
wandering  inmate  of  th^^  mansion  startled  the  sleeping  dra- 
gon of  self-esteem — when  her  character  would  again  as.>ume 
its  armour — she  would  repel  by  a  violent  etfort  the  rising 
p;i.-siun,  press  her  hands  ilat  and  close  upon  her  neck,  to 
siifle  the  rebellious  impidse  of  her  womau's  natnie — and 
like  Lady  Townley,  in  her  gambling  mood,  "make  a  great 
g:;lp  and  swalluw  it."  * 


176  THE  HALF  SIR. 

Nearly  a  fortnight  hnd  thus  elap.sp.d,  when,  as  Emily  was 
laying  aside  her  dress  (after  an  excursion  to  llowih  with 
her  friend  Jlartha  and  some  acquaintances,)  in  order,  to  pre- 
pare fur  tlie  evening,  her  attendant,  Xeliy,  entered  tlie  room 
as  usual  to  give  her  assistance.  Iler  niistress,  who  was  not 
so  guarded  in  the  presence  of  the  soubrette,  as  in  that  of 
her  more  sensitive  and  sharp-eyed  friends,  and  who  was  fa- 
tigued in  heart  and  soul  from  the  toilsome  pleasures  of  the 
forenoon,  sat  at  the  table,  her  arm  leaning  on  the  toilet-clotli, 
her  hand  sujiporting  her  forehead,  and  her  eyes  fixed  in 
thoughtful  melancholy  upon  the  floor. 

"  Isn't  it  greatly  Mr.  Ilamond  wouldn't  call  before  he 
went,  Miss?"  Kelly  said  timidly,  as  she  passed  softly  by 
the  young  lady's  chair. 

Emily  raised  her  head  quickly  and  in  strong  interest — 
"Went!  whiiher,  Nelly?" 

"  Sure,  never  a  know  do  I  know,  iMiss,  but  to  be  walken 
down  there,  by  Eden-quay,  and  to  meet  Rennny  O'Lcno, 
an  he  goeu  wit  a  walise  or  a  kind  of  a  portmantle  onder  his 
arm,  out  to  the  Pigeon-house." 

"For  what  purpose,  did  he  say?"  asked  Emily,  endea- 
vorring  to  subdue  the  cruel  anxiety  which  began  to  stir 
within  licr  bosom. 

"  I'll  tell  you  that.  Miss.  '  Good  morrow,  riemm}-,'  says 
I.  '  Good  morrow  kindly,  Nelly,'  sftys  he,  '  how  is  jour 
Misses  ?'  say  she.  '  Pretty  well,  Renmiy,'  says  I, '  consider- 
ing.' 'Pm  not  goen  to  see  you  any  more  now,  Nelly,'  says 
he.  '  Why  so  ?'  says  I.  *  Wisha  then,  I  don't  know,'  sa}  8 
he,- '  but  my  master  is  for  foreign  parts,  direct,'  savs  he, 
60—" 

"Abroad! — going  abroad?  leaving  Ireland!"  Emily 
exclaimed,  starting  up  in  undisguised  alarm. 

"  The  very  words  I  said  meself,  Miss.  '  What !'  says  I, 
*gocn  abroad,' says  I,  '  laven  Ireland,' says  I.  '  Iss,  iu 
trawt,'  says  he,  '  the  passage  is  tuk  an'  all,  an'  this,'  says 
he,  showeu  mc  the  portuuuule  the  same  tiiucj  '  is  the  last 


THE  HALF  Sin.  177 

tiling  tbr.t's  not  on  board  yet — liimsclf  is  on  the  high  ?cp.3 
be  tiiis  time,  or  will  be  before — ' " 

"  Good  heaven,  I  was  not  prepared  for  this.  This  is  too 
dreadful !"  Emily  repeated,  half  aloud,  as  if  uucouscicu3 
of  an  auditor. 

"  Mc  own  very  word  to  him,  Jliss.  '  It's  dreadful, 
Renmiy,'  says  I,  '  an  }0u  too,'  says  I,  'that  ought  to  have 
S07ne  sense,  any  way,  goen  after  a  bedlamite,'  says  I.  'Siiro 
you  know,  Nelly,'  says  he,  again,  '  I  can't  help  meself. 
lie  that's  bound  he  must  obey,  while  he  that's  free  can  run 
away,'  says  he.  '  I  must  do  the  master's  bidden,  Nelly — 
his  hipsty  dicht/  is  enough  for  me.'  xMi,  Miss  Em'ly, 
sure  it's  often  I  heerd  that  men  was  rovers,  an  it's  now  we 
both  feels  it  to  our  cost." 

"  I  desire,"  said  her  mistress,  less  in  a  humour  at  present 
to  be  amused  than  to  be  annoyed,  "  that  I  may  not  be 
implicated  in  such  ridiculous  associations."  Then  resumnig 
the  train  of  her  abstracted  rellections,  while  Nelly  submis- 
sively disavowed  any  intention  to  do  so  wicked  a  thing  as 
to  'implikit'  so  good  a  'Misses,'  E  nily  again  murmured — • 
"  Gone  I — Could  it  possibly  have  been  anything — any  new 
insult  in  my  last  letter,  that — " 

"  I  beg  pard'n,  ]\Iiss,"  said  Nelly,  "  but  what  was  that  you 
were  sayeu  ai  out  a  letter?" 

"I  gave  it  you,  Nelly,  that  morning,  and — " 

*'  In  diead,  you  are,  that  it  is  anytheu  in  that  Mr.  Ha- 
mond  tuk  oflence  at.  M<ike  your  mind  aisy  on  that  head, 
Miss,  for  he  couldn't  do  it." 

"  lluw  do  you  mean  ?" 

Nelly,  who  thought  concealment  any  longer  useless,  and 
perhaps  mischievous,  nqjli  d  to  the  last  question,  by  giving 
her  young  mistress  a  detailed  account  of  the  transaction, 
with  which  the  reader  is  already  acquainted. 

*'  And  you  knew  of  this,  Nelly,  and  said  not  a  word  ol 
it  to  me  I" 


173  TlIK  HALF  !»rK, 

"  0  than,  heav'u  forgive  us  all,  Miss.  I  can't  say  but  I 
did,  indeed  ;  au'  sure  if  I  knew  it  would  be  any  hurt — " 

Emily  had  iisteued  to  her  first  with  astoiiisiiment — ■ihcn 
anger — then  ul  tcr  horror  :  until  at  len^jth,  as  the  girl  cir- 
cumstantially unfolded  her  iniquity,  the  offence  assumed  a 
magnitude  too  gigantic  for  any  extremity  of  rage  or  of 
punishment.  She  grew  pale,  trembli'd — and  at  length  sunk 
with  a  burst  of  teais  in  the  attendant's  arms,  as  she  ex- 
claimed— "My  poor  girl,  you  did  not  know  what  yuu  were 
doing,  but  you  have  ruined  your  mistress." 

The  shrill  scream  wiiicli  Nelly  set  up  at  seeing  the  con- 
dition of  her  mistress,  though  checked  almost  instantly  by 
the  latter,  brought  JNIiss  O'lJrien  into  the  room,  who  was 
shocked  and  terrified  by  the  condition  in  which  she  found 
her  friend.  She  hastened  to  snatch  her  from  the  arms  of 
her  waiting-maid,  to  support  her  upon  her  own  bosom,  and 
endeavour,  by  caresses  and  the  most  tender  attentions,  to 
restore  her  to  some  degree  of  composure. 

"  Nelly,  leave  the  room,"  said  Miss  O'Brien.  "  What, 
in  the  name  of  wondrr,  can  have  happened,  E  nily  ?"  she 
added,  as  the  weeping  and  repentant  girl  obeyed  her. 
"  What  does  this  mean  i"' 

"  It  means,  Martha,  that  I  have  been  practising  a  fatal 
cheat  upon  you  and  on  my  own  heart.  Ilamond  lias  left 
the  country,  and  under  the  conviction  that  1  have  acted  a 
false  and  selfish  part  towards  him." 

"  I  was  not  prepared  to  hear  that  he  was  gone,"  said 
Martha,  a  liitle  puzzled,  "but,  I  declare,  Emily,  I  thought 
frtni  your  conduct  this  time  past,  that — " 

"  1  know  it.  It  was  my  wish  to  make  you  think  so.  I 
had  written  liim  a  note,  fall  of  penitence,  and  requesting 
to  see  him  here  as  soon  as  possible.  He  did  not  come, 
and  I  was  anxious  to  save  myself  irom  the  contempt  which 
a  knowledge  of  the  degrading  slight  must  necessarily  occa- 
sion. But  I  now  fiiid  that  by  some  awkwardness  of  our 
servants,  that  letter  was  nc-ver  received  by  hhu — and  hera 


THE  HALF  SIR.  17i' 

have  I  licen  tlie  dupe  of  my  own  folly,  while  he  believes 
hiirself  to  have  been  treated  with  coldnet^s  and  ingratitude. 
0  Jilartha,  I  wish  I  had  taken  your  advice,  when  last  we 
spoke  on  the  subject.     You  knew  him  better  than  I." 

"  Ue  comforted,  Emily.  It  is  fortunate  that  you  have 
learned  the  circumstance  in  time  to  effect  an  explanation. 
If  he  has  gone,  we  cannot  find  it  difficult,  eitiier  thruiigh 
his  banker  or  some  other  channel,  to  procure  a  clue  to  his 
probable  residence  abroad — and  all  shall  be  well  in  a  lew 
weeks." 

Fate,  however,  seemed  disposed  to  make  the  lovers 
more  deejjly  sensible  of  tlieir  mutual  folly,  by  falsifying 
this  consoling  prediction.  An  accident  which  had  inter- 
vened confirmed  Ilamond  in  his  resolution  of  relinquishing 
his  passion,  if  possible — at  all  events,  of  separating  him- 
self from  its  object  for  ever. 

lie  had  lingered,  in  the  unacknowledged  hope  of  receiv- 
ing some  inducement  to  a  reconciliation,  at  his  old  resi- 
dence, for  about  a  fortnight  after  he  had  sent  the  letter 
above-mentioned.  In  the  midst  of  his  wavering  and  irre- 
solute  humours,   however,  he  received   an  account  from 

Kemmy  of  the  increased  frequency  of  Lord  E 's  visits. 

This  ciicumstance,  combined  with  Emily's  silence,  com- 
pletely unsettled  the  hope  that  was  beginning  to  take 
ground  (for  love's  hope  requires  but  light  footing)  on  the 
barren  possibility  of  a  misconception. 

"i\nd  now,"  said  Ilamond,  after  he  had  dispatched  his 
servant  to  secure  him  a  place  in  the  packet,  which  was  to 
G'lil  on  the  following  morning,  "  now,  farewell  high  life 
and  happiness,  for  ever!  Farewell  the  sweet  anxieties 
and  mortifying  kindnesses  of  patronage — the  chance  cour- 
tesies— the  eleemosynary  smiles  that  are  flung  in  pity  to 
the  unfriended  mendicant  for  fashion" — he  stamped  vio- 
lently and  set  his  teeth  as  the  degrading  epithet  siigi:;eitcd 
ilself  to  his  mind.  "Welcome  now  the  wide  v,v.  d,  with 
all  li^  CI  .iiij,ei  ol  clinic,  coudilion,  and  fortune  !     Welcome 


180  THE  HALF  cm. 

my  own  vulgar  station.  Its  coarseness  is  tut  the  ■v^-liole- 
some  blustering  of  nature's  own  elements,  which  may  be 
mucli  more  easily  provided  against  than  the  secret,  wither- 
ing mildew  that  is  silently  showered  upon  the  heart,  amid 
all  the  sunshine  and  summer  kindness  of  high-born  hypoc- 
risy. Farewell  love !  and  welcome  toil,  travel,  and  ex- 
tremity !  Farewell,  Emily !  let  pride  and  honour  make 
good  to  your  happiness  all  the  devoted  tenderness  which 
you  have  rejected,  and  I  will  m}self  say  that  you  are 
wealthy  in  your  loss  !" 

He  repeated  his  farewell  with  a  deeper  and  drearier  feel- 
ing, however,  on  the  following  morning,  when  he  stood  on 
the  packet,  and  cast  his  eyes  with  a  fondness  over  the  dis- 
tant hiils  of  Wicklow,  tliat  separated  him  from  his  old 
Munster  home.  The  morning  was  a  still  and  beautiful  one, 
and  the  face  of  the  bay,  agiiated  only  by  the  bulk  of  its 
own  waters  into  that  leaping  undulation  which  we  cannot 
describe  otherwise  than  by  referring  the  reader  (in  deJiance 
of  the  imputation  of  a  common-place  atfectatiou)  to  Claude 
Lorraine's  embarkation  pictures,  looked  clear  and  glassy- 
green.  The  pier  was  crowded  with  passengers  who  were 
waiting  to  see  their  effects  safely  stowed  before  they  took 
their  own  places  in  the  vessel,  with  clamorous  jinglenien 
and  ragged  half-starved  porters  ;  members  of  the  exiled 
parliament  made  up  for  the  winter  campaign ;  and  adven- 
turers of  every  descrijjtion,  who  devoutly  believed  that  gold 
and  fame  grew  like  blackberries  upon  hedges  ever}-where 
but  in  poor  Ireland,  and  who,  if  they  did  not;  actually  sup- 
pose that  the  houses  in  London  Mere  tiled  with  pancakes, 
and  the  streets  paved  Mith  wedges  of  gold — yet  would 
have  staked  their  existence  that  something  very  good  must 
be  had  there,  or  so  many  people  would  not  be  cunstauMy 
going  and  'iiever  returning  ;  and  liilL  d  their  hearts  with 
the  delicious  promise  of  a  deliu-ion  (luito  as  vain,  if  not  so 
palpably  absurd  as  that  above  alluded  to  of  pOur  Wiiiiiing- 
tou.     Tiiey  saw  not — and  Ilamoud  saw  not  then,  thou^ilj 


THE  HALF  SIR.  1 8  1 

his  after  exp?nence  brought  the  picture  in  all  Its  reality 
before  his  eyes — they  saw  not  the  thousand  causes  of  that 
nevei' — that  eternal  absence  of  those  wlio  trod  before  thca 
the  path  which  they  were  tiien  treading,  and  had  never  .  .  • 
traced  their  steps.  Tliey  heard  only  of  the  fortunes  of 
those  who  lived  and  prospered — tliey  knew  not — thoy 
asked  not  of  the  fate  of  the  many  who  failed  and  perished, 
and  whose  tale  remained  untold.  They  beheld  not,  in  the 
blindness  of  their  sanguine  hearts,  the  host  of  evils  which 
counterbalance  the  lonely  and  fortuitous  good  fortune  of 
the  single  adventurer.  They  saw  not  the  poor  but  con- 
tented cottager  of  the  Irish  hills  estranged  from  the  care- 
less simplicity  of  his  turfen  hearth,  and  driving  a  miserable 
trade  amid  the  vile  and  stifling  recesses  of  St.  Giles's  and 
Saffron-hill ;  with  some  bits  of  old  cord,  a  knife-brick,  a 
few  heads  of  greens,  a  trace  of  onions,  a  bu?hel  of  co:ils,  a 
mangling  machine,  and  a  few  pounds  of  potatoes  for  his 
whole  stock  ;  or  hurrying  to  its  close  the  wasting  flame  of 
a  miserable  life  amid  the  abominations  of  a  London  night- 
house.  They  saw  not  the  wretched  basket-woman  of 
Covent-garden  market,  whom  the  demon  of  discontent  had 
found  living  in  the  happy  ignorance  of  her  own  wants,  the 
grace  and  blooming  ornament  of  some  mountain  hamlet  in 
her  native  land.  They  saw  not  the  baffled  politician  bury- 
ing himself  in  the  gloom  of  his  lonely  apartment,  after 
having  sciuandered  a  life  in  earning  for  himself  the  curses 
of  his  own  people  and  the  contempt  of  those  among  whom 
he  sojourned — they  saw  him  not  as  he  drew  the  last,  long 
sigh,  and  looked  the  long,  last  look  towards  the  window 
that  opened  on  the  west,  ere  he  put  to  its  fatal  use  the 
weapon  that  was  for  ever  to  shut  out  the  sight  and  sound 
of  the  ruin  he  had  made  from  the  organs  of  his  mortal 
sense.  They  saw  not  the  young,  acutely  sensitive,  and 
fine-principled  enthusiast,  whom  the  folly  of  friends  or  the 
consciousness  of  merit  forced  abroad  upon  the  world,  shrink- 
ing in  disgust  and  agony  from  the  cruel  reality  which  dis- 


18^  THE  HALF  SIR. 

placefl  the  faery  splendours  of  his  own  fond  imaghiation, 
or  curbhig  his  high  spirit  down  to  the  moan  and  crawhng 
use  of  a  hirehng  and  a  time-server — bar;ering  his  youth- 
ful principle  for  bread,  or,  peihitps,  sternly  preserving  it, 
and  turning  aside  from  tlie  Monder,  the  scorn,  and  indiffer- 
ence of  the  world,  to  die  in  want  and  solitude,  and  hide 
bis  brilliant  qualities  of  heart  and  mind  in  the  gloom  of  a 
pauper's  grave,  unthought  of  and  unpitied. 

While  Haniond  sat  indulging  the  barren  and  listless  hu- 
mour which  the  utter  ruin  of  his  own  hopes  had  cast  upon 
him,  his  eye  was  attracted  by  the  sight  of  a  small  vessel, 
which  was  rapidly  gliding  by  them  in  the  direction  of  the 
hill  of  Howth.  The  distance  was  not  so  great  as  to  pre- 
vent his  fully  disfinguishing  the  persons  and  features  of  its 
crew  ;  and  when  he  had  done  so,  his  heart  bounded  within 
bis  bosom,  as  if  it  would  have  deserted  its  mansion.  ]\Iiis 
O'Urien,  and  Emily  Bury  were  seated  near  the  stern,  and 
an  elegant-looking  young  man,  whom  he  hail  no  difficulty 

in  recognising  as  the  obnoxious  E ,  was  seated  near  the 

latter.  He  was  apparently  describ'ng  to  her  the  effect  of 
some  particular  scenery  in  the  country,  for  his  hand  was 
frequently  pointed  towards  the  Wicklow  hills,  and  Emily 
often  smiled  and  bowed  her  head  as  in  assent.  Haniond 
felt  his  frame  tremble,  and  his  heart  sink  and  sicl^en,  as  IjO 
leaned  against  the  mast  of  the  vessel. 

The  dreariness  which  his  own  want  of  object  or  int  rest 
occasioned  with  his  soul,  was  tenfold  increased  by  the  ap- 
parent anxiety  and  bustle  of  those  around  him.  He  felt,  as 
he  turned  aside  from  the  painful  testimony,  which  hia  own 
eyes  afforded  him  of  his  mistress's  falsehood — and  as  he 
gazed  upon  the  crowd  of  busy  faces  that  were  flitting  about 
his  own,  as  if  he  were  among  beings  of  another  world,  in 
whose  proceedings  he  could  take  no  possible  interest — or 
as  if  he  had  returned  from  the  grave,  to  look,  with  the  full 
knowledge  of  the  utter  vanitv  ,t"  all  earthly  pursuits,  upon 
the  dry  and  common  toil  of  his  unseeing  species.     Presently 


THE  HALT'  SIR. 


183 


a  fellow  struck  up  some  popular  air,  on  a  clarionet,  upon 
the  deck  of  the  packet  that  lay  near.  The  ■well-known 
sounds  produced  an  instant  bustle  among  the  passengers. 
They  threw  by  their  cloaks,  and  the  country  fellows  cau- 
tiouf>ly  keeping  tlieir  bundles  in  their  hands,  and  occasion- 
ally wheeling  their  sticks,  in  an  impulse  of  ecstatic  delight, 
with  a  *'ho(p  ■\^hihk  !"  above  their  heads,  kept  up  a  pat- 
tering hecl-and-tce  measure,  upun  the  boards.  Many  of 
those  on  board  were  about  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  their 
early  youth — some  few,  perhaps,  returning  crowned  with 
wealth  and  success  after  a  long  lite  of  toil  and  trial,  were 
enjoying,  in  anticipation,  the  delight  of  pouring  into  the  lap 
of  an  impoverished  parent,  and  bringing  peace  and  joy  into 
the  bosom  of  a  sorrowing  household.  Another,  perhaps, 
was  about  to  feel  once  more  upon  his  cheek  the  tears  of  a 
devoted  wife,  and  the  innocent  kisses  of  the  children  from 
whom  he  liad  been  torn  by  the  tyranny  of  circumstar.ccs — 
another  might  be  returning  to  tlie  house  and  the  aliections 
of  a  forsaken  and  forgiving  father.  Another,  yet,  had  a 
first  love  to  meet,  and  even  he,  the  most  desolate  among 
them,  who  had  no  such  immediate  friends  to  welcome  him 
to  the  home  he  had  left — felt  his  spirit  mount,  and  his  heart 
make  healthful  music  within  him,  while  he  thought  of  lay- 
ing him  down 

"  To  husband  out  liie's  taper  at  the  close," 

among  the  wild  hills  and  "  pleasant  places,"  where  he  had 
spent  the  happiest  years  (it  is  an  old  thing  to  say,  but  its 
staleness  may  be  pardoned  for  its  truth,)  that  heaven  aciorJs 
to  man,  in  a  world  where  no  positive  happiness  can  exist  ; 
but  where  life  runs  on  between  regret  for  the  past — want 
for  the  present — and  hope  for  the  future.  Hamond,  on  the 
contrary,  was  leaving  a  land,  which  was  and  was  not,  his 
home ;  and  where  he  hud  filled  a  nameless  place  in  society, 
without  stamp  or  station,  possessing  claims  to  various  con- 
ditions, and  pioperly  belonging  to  nono. 


18i  THE  HALF  Sm. 

A  lip^lit  •wind  shortly  spmiig  np,  and  tlie  rosscl  left  tbe 
land.  Ilamond  again  canght  a,  distant  glimpse  of  Emily's 
little  pleasure  boat,  as  it  glided  swil'tly  on  its  course.  The 
morning  sun,  falling  on  the  slate  roofs  along  the  shore,  and 
on  the  tarred  and  patched  mainsails  of  the  smacks  which 
were  used  for  the  destruction  of  the  famous  Dublin -bay- 
herrings  (a  staple  article  of  fi^st-fare,  as  popular  in  their 
Irish  metropolis  as  the  i-enowned  John  Dory  at  liillings- 
gate,)  gave  an  appearance  of  gaudy  animation  to  the  scene. 
Onward  still  the  vessel  went,  and  the  receding  music  came 
over  the  Avaters  like  a  farewell.  The  pleasure-boat  became 
invisible  in  the  haze  of  the  morning  sunshine,  and  Hamond 
plunged  into  the  gloom  of  his  cabin  an  estranged  and  al- 
tered man. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

•  Delav  the  bridal?     Bid 


Our  ftiends  disperse  and  keep  their   mirth  iinwosted 

For  another  morn  ?     Fie  !  lie  !     Have  you  a  name 

To  care  for?     Wliat  a  scandal  will  it  bring 

Upon  j'our  fame! — A  j'oiith,  brave,  noble,  fortunate, 

Worthy  as  fair  a  fate  as  thou  couldst  offer, 

Were  it  made  doubly  prosperous.     Wiiat,  think  you, 

Makes  you  thus  absolute? 

The  haughty  independence  of  spirit  which  she  loved  to  in- 
dulge, or  to  affect,  returned  with  more  than  its  accustomed 
force  on  the  heart  of  Emily  Bnry,  when  she  learned  that 
Ilamond  had  finally  and  fully  ofFectcd  the  half  menace  which 
his  letter  conta'ned.  She  could  hardly  blame  iiim,  and  she 
would  not  bhime  herself,  so  that  her  only  resource  lav  in  re- 
suming the  general  air  of  indifterence  which  she  had  re- 
linquished so  instantly,  on  discovering  the  mistake  in  which 
Damond's  silence  originated.  In  this  she  succeeded  so  well, 
that  iier  friend  Mi'tha  was  once  more  at  a  loss  to  conjecture 
wliat  was  the  real  eifbct  of  the  disa])pointuiciit  shs  had  i  x- 


7IIE  HALF  SIP-  185 

pcrioTiced.  Miss  Bmy,  however,  was  perlinps  too  clever  for 
her  own  interest ;  for  the  perfect  ease  and  cnrelessnefs  of 
her  manner  exposed  her  more  than  ever  to  attentions  v/hich 
made  her  heart  sick,  and  solicitations  which  she  feared  en- 
tirely to  discourage,  even  while  her  soul  turned  in  disgust 
from  tlieir  dull  and  passionless  monotony.  She  dared  not, 
however,  suffer  this  secret  feeling  to  become  in  any  degree 
apparent,  for  she  dreaded,  beyond  all  other  evils  that  now 
lay  within  the  range  of  probability,  any  diminution  of  num- 
ber or  brilliancy  in  the  train  of  her  admirers.  The  system 
of  duplicity  (though  she  would  esteem  the  term  hardly  ap- 
plied,) involved  her  in  many  difficulties.  She  lost,  in  the 
first  place,  the  confidence,  and  in  a  great  measure,  the  friend- 
ship of  Miss  O'Brien,  who,  though  she  could  not  penetrate 
P]aiiiy's  secret,  was  yet  quick-sighted  enough  to  know  that 
her  little  share  of  iiuluence  on  the  mind  of  the  latter  no 
longer  existed.  Neither  could  she  hope  that  the  fashionable 
love  which  she  had  excited  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head  per- 
haps, of  young  E would  continue  to  grow  and  flourish 

Oil  absolute  coldness;  and  she  ventured,  in  the  fear  of  a  second 
desertion,  to  thiow  him  one  or  two  woids  of  doubtful  en- 
couragement, Avhich  he  took  the  liberty  of  estimating  at  a 
far  higher  worth  than  she  intended.  He  became  importu- 
nate— she  toyed  and  shifted  her  ground — he  blockaded — 
she  pouted ;  her  friends  first  wondered  at  her,  and  then 
blamed  her — and  at  last  persecuted  her.     Every  body  said 

that  young  E wronged  himself — that  he  was  entitled  to 

a  far  higher  union — and  that  he  was  exceedingly  ill-treated 
— Miss  Bury  should  know  her  own  mind — she  was  taking 
very  strange  airs  upon  her,  &c.  And  so  to  relieve  her 
conscience — and  to  satisfy  friends — and  to  reward  her 
swain  for  his  perseverance,  Emily  drew  a  long  deep  sigh, 
and  promised  him  marriage. 

"And  now  'a  long  day,  my  lord  !'*  if  you  please,"  she 

*  The  usual  esclamation  of  convicts  after  sentence  of  dt-ath  has 
been  passed. 


183  THE  HALF  SIK. 

said  \vith  a  bitter  gaiety,  after  she  had  listened  to  his  rap- 
tures with  great  resignutiun. 

"  The  shortest  will  be  long,"  said  her  lover.  "  Let  it  be 
a  double  knot.  Your  friend  Miss  U'Brieu  is  about  to 
change  her  name  next  Wednesday." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Emily,  coldly ;  "  you  will  consult 
your  own  convenience,  for  1  declare  I'm  not  anxious  one 
way  or  another." 

Lord  E had  none  of  Hnmond's  sensitive  folly  about 

him.  He  seemed  not  to  notice  the  contemptuous  indiffe- 
rence of  her  manner,  but  resolved  within  his  own  mind  to 
"  let  her  know  the  difference,"  when  once  he  had  satisfied 
his  own  vani'.y  by  getting  her  into  his  power. 

The  weddings  were  celebrated  with  due  splenctonr  on  the 
same  day,  but  under  very  ditfjrent  auspices  to  both  par- 
ties. Miss  O'Brien  gave  her  hand  freely,  and  felt  it  pressed 
with  a  tenderniss  which  assured  her  it  was  valued  at  its 
full  worth  ;  she  was  conscious  of  no  evil  motive — of  no 
concealed  derangement  of  heart ;  she  loved  quietly,  and  she 
loved  well  and  happily.  Emily,  indeed,  was  able  to  sus- 
tain her  part  at  the  altar's  foot,  with  as  much  appare-Ht 
composure  as  her  friend,  but  she  could  not  prevent  her 
heart  from  sinking  (when  the  ceremony  was  actually  con- 
cluded) so  very  low,  as  to  render  it  absolutely  impossible 
for  her  to  sustain  the  j)art  she  had  undertaken  withuut  suf- 
fering the  actress  to  appear. 

The  Irieads  parted  soon  after  the  ceremony,  ]\rartha 
O'Biien  setting  oft'  with  her  husband  fur  Mangier,  and 
Emily  accompanying  her  lord  to  the  house  of  his  father. 
The   necessity  for  dissimulation  with  the  world  now   no 

longer  existed,  and   Lady  E felt  a  kind  of  miserable 

relief  in  touching  ground  at  last,  and  feeling  that  at  all 
events  she  could  sink  no  further.  Sue  subuiitted,  therefore, 
M'ilhout  murmuring,  to  the  cougratuiations  ot  her  acquain- 
tances ;  allowed  herself  to  be  whiilei  about  in  a  mayniti- 
Ajut  dress,  in  order  to  gratify  the  va.iiiy  of  iitr  huibaudfor 


) 

"1 


THE  HALF  SIR.  187 

a  few  weolcs,  and  then  dlfjcoverecl  what,  indeed,  before  v/as 
scarcely  a  secret  to  her,  that  his  purposes  were  in  a  great  mea- 
sure answered  by  tlie  display,  and  the  object  of  his  long  pro- 
bation almost  entirely  accomplished.  However  ill-disposed 
Emily  was  to  correspond  with  any  manifestations  of  esteem  or 
aficclion  on  his  part,  her  womanly  pride  was  not  the  less 
hurt  by  the  Heglect  with  which  she  soon  found  herself 
treated ;  and  although  she  was  far  too  proud  to  complain 
■ — the  silc!  t  discontent  in  which  she  lived,  and  the  dissipa- 
tion in  which  she  mingled,  began  in  the  course  of  a  few 
years  to  make  very  perceptible  inroads  upon  her  health. 
Castlc-Conncll,  ]\Inllow,  Lahinch  (a  watering-place  on  the 
western  coast,  which  has  of  late  years  been  superseded  by 
Miltown-Malbay,  and  still  more  lately  by  the  improving 
village  of  Kilkee),  and  many  other  places,  were  tried  with- 
out success;  and  at  length  it  was  found  expedient  that  she 
sl-.ould  spend  some  months  in  a  foreign  climate,  where  the 
air,  more  tempered  and  lighter  than  that  of  her  native  land, 
niiglit  agree  better  with  the  subdued  tone  of  her  constitution. 

These  months  turned  out  to  be  years.     E refused 

to  accompany  his  wife,  le>t  it  should  be  supposed  that  he 
wns  putiing  his  estate  "to  nurse;"  and  niigrated  lo  the 
Brilisli  metropolis,  as  the  representative  in  the  lower  house 
of  an  Iri:.h  county,  where,  it  was  said,  he  did  not  scruple 
putting  his  honour  "to  nurse"  in  the  lap  of  the  reigning 
minister.  New  connexions,  or  a  dislike  of  the  old,  con- 
tributed to  render  hin>  a  permanent  absentee,  while  Lady 

E ,  deterred  by  the  continuance  of  her  ill  health,  and 

not  a  little  by  a  reluctance  to  encounter  the  revival  of  many 
painful  associations,  seemed  to  have  relinquislied  all  idea  of 
revisiting  the  land  of  her  birth.  Her  guardian  (her  only 
relative  in  Ireland)  had  died  within  the  year  after  her  de- 
parture, and  she  had  now  no  friends  in  that  country  for 
whose  society  she  would  endanger  the  shattered  remnant 
of  her  peace  of  mind,  by  exposing  it  to  so  many  rude  re- 
membraiiccrs  as  must   necessarily  present  themselves    U) 


188  THE  HALF  SIR. 

her  ?OuSGS  o  i  licr  retnm.  Mr.illia,  Idnd  and  good  as  slio. 
liail  always  been,  until  l.er  friend  tlioiiglit  proper  to  cast 
hcv  off,  was  now  the  bap]))'  and  virtuous  wife  of  a  sensible 
man  (who  understood  nothing  of  romance,  and  hated  pride, 
?ltIiouii;h  he  v.'as  a  Scot),  and  the  careful  mother  of  a  pair 
of  chubby  little   Munster   fellows.     Without    having  one 

blac]<  drop  of  envy  in  her  whole  composition,  Lady  E 

could  not  help  feeling  that  Martha,  the  matron,  would  not 
be  the  pleasautest  companion  in  the  world  for  Emily,  the 
forsaken  and  the  neglected — and  she  had  her  doubts,  more- 
over, whether  that  lady  would  herself  be  anxious  to  renew 
the  early  friendship  that  had  constituted  the  hapjiincss  of 
so  many  joyous  years  to  both.  She  made  no  overture, 
therefore,  and  in  a  few  years  more,  Emily  Bury,  her  hus- 
band, Eugene  Hamond — and  the  story  of  their  strange 
courtship,  were  perfectly  forgotten  in  the  circles  in  which 
they  had  mingled  during  their  residence  in  Ireland. 

We  love  not  to  dwell  lunger  than  is  necessary  to  the  de- 
velopment of  our  tale,  on  the  history  of  feelings  (howevti 
interesting  from  their  general  api)lication  to  human  natun), 
in  which  no  opportunity  is  adbrded  for  illustration  of  na- 
tional character — that  being  the  piincipal  t'e-ign  of  these 
volumes.  Tiie  reader,  therefore,  avUI  allow  us  here  to  return 
to  our  own  Munster,  congratulaiing  ourselves  on  our  escape 
(if  indeed  we  have  escaped)  from  our  adventurous  sojourn 
in  a  quarter  of  Ireland  which  is  rendered  formidable  to  lis 
by  the  prior  occupation  of  so  many  gifted  spii  ts — ai  d 
where,  last  of  all  in  the  order  of  time,  thong);  fir  otiiirv\i  e 
in  the  order  of  genius,  the  vigorous  hands  that  penned 
the  O'llara  Tales,  have  wrung  from  the  Irish  heart  the 
uttermost  relics  of  its  character,  and  left  it  a  dry  and  bar-, 
ren  subject  to  all  who  slndl  succeed  them.  We  retun^, 
then,  with  pli\nsure,  to  Munster — an  unsifted  soil,  whvw. 
we  may  be  likely  to  get  more  than  Gratiano's  two  graii  s' 
of  w^heat  in  a  bushil  of  ck;li"  for  our  puias. 


THE  HALF  SIK.  189 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Let  me  know  some  little  joy — 
We  that  suffer  long  annoy 
Are  contented  with  a  thought 
Through  an  idle  faiicy  wrought. 

—  The  Woman  .Hater. 

We  have  onr  own  good  reasons  for  requesting  that  tlie 
reader  may  ask  us  no  questions  concerning  the  occurrences 
which  filled  up  the  time  between  Hamond's  fliglit  and  the 
year  pieceding  that  on  which  our  tale  commenced — a  year 
which  is  still  remembered  with  sorrow  by  many  a  childless 
parent  and  houseless  orphan  in  Ireland,  and  which  appears 
to  have  been  marked  by  a  train  of  calamities  new  even  to 
that  country — a  famine — a  phigne^a  system  of  rebellion 
the  most  fearful,  silent,  and  fatally  cahn  that  the  demon  of 
misrule  ever  occasioned,  and  wliich  seemed  as  if  all  the 
hereditary  evils  with  which  the  land  was  ever  nfflicted  had 
welled  out  their  poison  from  new  sources  upcn  its  surface, 
to  present  a  direful  contrast  to  the  hideous  pageant  with 
which  it  had  sutiered  itself  to  be  mucked  on  the  preceding 
year. 

In  the  spring,  or,  rather,  early  in  the  summer  of  this  year, 
on  a  red  and  blo\\ing  morn,  the  surface  of  that  part  of  the 
Shannon  which  lies  between  Kilrush  and  Loup  Head,  was 
covered  with  the  craft  Avhich  is  peculiar  to  the  river,  the 
heavily  laden  and  clumsy  turf  bo  Us,  Galway  hookers  pro- 
vided with  fish  for  the  Limerick  market,  large  vessels  of 
bnrth  u  going  and  returning  to  and  from  the  same  city, 
and  revenue  cutters,  distinguished  by  the  fleetness  of  their 
speed  and  the  whiteness  of  their  sails  from  the  black  and 
lumbering  craft  above  mentiune'd,  and  presenting,  by  such 
variety,  a  very  lively  and  animated  picture  on  the  often 
dreary  and  monotonous  face  of  the  sheeted  river.  The  red 
clouds,  whi-h  became  massed  into  huge  and  toppling  piles 


190  THE  HALF  SIR. 

upon  the  ■western  horizon,  and  confronted  the  newly  risen 
snii  with  an  angry  and  tlircatening  aspect,  afforded  an  in- 
dication, wliicli  experience  had  taught  him  to  appreciate, 
of  the  weather  which  the  boatman  was  destined  to  contend 
with  in  the  course  of  tlie  day.  All  seemed  to  be  aware  of 
this,  and  the  utmost  exertions  were  made  by  the  helms- 
men to  accomplish  as  much  as  was  possible  of  their  pro- 
gress before  the  southerly  gale  should  become  too  heavy 
for  their  canvass. 

On  the  forecastle  of  one  of  the  Galway  hookers,  a  tight- 
built  little  vessel,  which,  by  the  smallness  of  its  bends,  its 
greylionnd  length,  and  gunwale  distinguished  by  a  curve  , 
inward  (teciinicaliy  called  a  tumble- ho  me)  was  enabled  to 
bear  a  heavier  sea  and  make  a  much  fleeter  progress  than 
the  other  open  boats  of  the  river — on  the  forecastle  of  such 
a  vessel,  two  men  were  placed ;  one,  who  belonged  to  the 
boat,  as  ap|)earcd  by  his  blue  frieze  jacket,  ornamented 
with  rows  of  horn  buttons,  coarse  canvass  trousers,  red 
comforter,  battered  and  bulged  hat  covered  with  an  old 
oil  cloth,  and  tied  about  witii  a  bit  of  listen  as  a  succeda- 
neum  for  a  hat-band;  the  other  seated  on  the  fluke  of  the 
anchor,  in  a  thread-bare  brown  coat  and  cord  kn(!e- 
breeches,  old  brown  hat  and  dark  striped  woollen  waist- 
coat, and  making  it  sufficiently  manifest  by  his  odd  star- 
ing manner  and  raw  questions  that  he  was  a  passenger, 
and  a  stranger  to  the  part  of  the  country  by  which  he  was 
sailing. 

"  Put  down  your  ruddher  a  taste.  Bat,"  said  the  former 
to  the  man  at  the  helm.      "  I  see  a  squall  comen." 

"  See  a  squall !  see  the  wind  !"  exclaimed  the  man  with 
the  brown  coat  ;  "  that  bates  ail  I  ever  heerd.  They  say 
'  pigs  can  see  the  wind,'  whatever  the  raison  of  it  is,  but 
I  travelled  many's  the  mile  of  water  fresh  and  salt,  an'  I 
nnvur  seen  a  sailor  that  would  hold  to  seeing  the  wind 
yit." 

"  You  sec  more  no'vv  than  uvur  you  seen,  far  as  you 


THE  HALF  SIR. 


191 


went,"' said  the  bontman.  "Af  you  put  your  fiice  tliis 
way,  sideways,  on  tlie  gun'lo'  the  boat,  you'll  see  the  wind 
yourself  coincu  over  the  waters." 

Tlie  passenger,  supposing  that  he  was  really  about  to 
witness  a  nautical  wonder,  did  as  he  was  directed,  and 
placing  his  cheek  on  the  towlpin,  looked  askance  in  the 
direction  of  the  gale — nothing  doubting  that  it  wns  the 
very  invisible  element  itself  the  boatman  spoke  of,  and  not 
its  indication  in  the  darkening  curl  that  covered  by  tits  the 
face  of  the  waters.  At  the  instant  that  he  was  making 
liis  observation,  however,  the  helmsman,  in  obedience  to 
another  command  of  "  closer  to  wind,"  from  his  companion 
on  the  forecastle,  put  down  the  helm  suddenl}-,  and  caused 
the  little  vessel  to  make  a  jerk  with  her  prow  to  windward, 
which  clipped  off  the  mane  of  the  next  breaker  and  flung 
it  over  the  weather  bow  into  the  face  and  bosom  ot  the 
passenger.  He  shifted  his  place  with  great  expedition,  but 
not  deeming  it  prudent  to  take  any  notice  of  the  jeering 
smile  which  passed  quickly  between  the  boatmen,  he  re- 
sumed his  former  place  at  the  lee  side  of  the  vessel. 

"  It's  wet  you  are,  I'm  in  dread,"  said  the  forecastle 
man,  with  an  air  of  mock  concern. 

"A  trifle  that  way,"  replied  the  other,  with  atone  Oi 
seenn'ng  indifference — and  adding,  as  he  composedly  ap- 
plied his  handkerchief  to  the  dripping  breast  of  his  coat — 
"Only  av  all  the  Munster  boys  wor  nuvur  to  be  drier*  than 
what  myself  is  now,  'twould  be  a  bad  story  for  the  publi- 
cans." 

"Why  thin,  I  see  now,"  said  the  boatman,  assuming  at 
once  a  manner  of  greater  frankness  and  good-will,  "  that 
y(»u  are  a  ra.d  Irisliman  after  all,  be  your  taking  a  jjke  iu 
good  parts." 

"  In  good  parts  !  In  all  parts,  I'm  of  opini  ^n,"  replied 
the  passenger  merrily,  extending  his  arms  to  alibrd  a  Itdl 


•  Dry — thirsty. 


192  THE  HALF  SIB. 

view  of  iiis  d  cnchetl  figure.  "  But  indeed  I  am,  as  you  say, 
a  sort  of  a  bad  Irishman." 

"  And  your  frind  b'low  iu  the  cabin,  what  is  he  ?" 

"  0,  the  same  to  be  sure — and  a  great  giutleman,  too, 
only  he's  not  a  Milaysian  like  meself." 

"  Wasn't  it  a  quare  place  for  him  to  take — a  man  that 
I  see  having  money  so  flush  about  him — a  place  in  the 
cabin  of  a  hooker,  in  yjlace  of  a  berth  like  any  responsible 
man  in  the  reg'lar  packet  ?" 

To  this  query,  the  passenger  in  the  brown  coat  only  an- 
swered by  casting,  first,  a  cautious  glance  towards  a  small 
square  hole  and  trap-door  iu  the  forecastle  deck,  out  of 
wliich  the  wreaths  of  smoke  which  were  issuing,  showed 
it  to  be  a  substitute  for  that  apartment  wluch  is  termed 
the  cabin  in  more  stately  vessels.  The  man  then  crept 
softly  towards  the  apertin-e,  waved  the  vapour  aside  with 
1)13  hand,  and  looked  doun.  The  whole  extent  of  the 
nether  region  was  immersed  in  an  atmosphere,  to  which  the 
paradox  of  the  "palpable  obscure"  might  have  been  applied 
and  ceased  to  be  a  paradox.  It  was  some  time  before  the 
objects  beneath  became  sufiicicntly  discernible  for  the  pas- 
senger to  form  any  conjecture  (if  such  were  his  intention) 
on  the  transactions  which  were  taking  place  in  the  cabin  ; 
but  when  they  did  so,  his  eye  was  enabled  to  comprehend 
the  circuit  of  a  little  excavation  (as  it  appeared)  about 
four  feet  in  height,  eight  in  breadth,  and  nine  or  ten  in 
length,  in  which  a  number  of  persons,  about  eight  or  ten 
men  and  two  old  women,  lay  huddled  on  a  heap  of  straw 
— the  latter  sitting  ei'cct,  nursing  children — the  others, 
some  looked  in  a  phasing  forgetfuhicss  of  the  world  and  its 
cares,  and  some  quietly  conversing  on  the  state  of  the 
coiintry — a  subject  of  paramount  interest,  at  tiiat  period, 
to  all  classes.  Through  the  volumes  of  smoke  which  rolied 
about  his  head,  the  passenger  could  desciy  a  little  fire 
lighted  on  a  few  bricks  at  tlie  end  of  the  cabin,  beside 
wiiicii  sat  a  swarthy,  wild-haired  boy,  roasting  potatoes 


THE  HALF  SIR.  193 

and  eggs,  and  seeming  as  much  at  his  ease  as  if  he  ■wore 
inhaling  the  purest  aroma.  Opposite  to  this  youth — iiis 
arms  fokled,  his  legs  crossed,  and  iiis  head  reclining  against 
one  of  the  ribs  of  the  vessel — lay  a  person  of  a  very  sin- 
gular and  perplexing  appearance.  His  eyes  had  all  the 
wildness  which  characterises  that  of  a  maniac,  and  were 
only  contradistinguished  from  it  by  the  fixedness  and  in- 
tensity of  expression  -with  which  their  gaze  rested  on  the 
object,  whatever  it  was,  which,  for  the  moment,  awakened 
the  interest  of  their  owner.  His  face  was  dragged  and 
pale — marked  with  the  lines  of  sorrow,  and  a  litile  tinged 
Avith  the  hue  of  years — but  so  very  sliglitly,  that  if  it  were 
not  fur  the  assistance  which  Time  had  received  from  acci- 
dent and  circumstance,  the  man  might  yet  have  taken  foot- 
ing within  the  grcuud  of  maturity.  He  wore  a  loose  blue 
silk  handkerchief  on  his  neck — a  sailor's  jacket,  and  trou- 
sers of  fiieze,  of  the  same  colour — (the  manufacture  of 
some  village  weaver),  and  a  double-breasted  bhick  silk 
waistcoat,  which,  opening  above,  afibrded  (in  better  light, 
however,  than  that  in  which  he  was  now  placed)  a  twilight 
glimpse  of  a  shirt  whicli,  from  its  fineness  and  whiteness, 
accorded  ill  with  the  remainder  of  the  wearer's  costume, 
though  there  was  something  in  his  attitude,  and  in  the  in- 
telligent inquiry  of  his  "  hawking"  eye,  which  would  re- 
deem it  in  soaie  measure  from  the  charge  of  total  inconsis- 
tency. 

After  he  had  reconnoitered  the  cabin  to  his  satisfaction, 
the  passenger  drew  back  from  the  trap-door,  making  a  wry 
f.ice,  as  the  smoke  penetrated  his  eyes,  and  assaulted  those 
uiiuameable  apertures  above  the  mouth,  which,  in  this  age 
of  refinement,  it  may  suffice  to  indicate  by  an  allusion  to 
the  organ  of  smell. 

"  I  might  as  well  go  down  a  chimbley,"  said  he,  ex- 
pressing as  much  distaste  by  his  manner,  as  Cob  might  be 
sui.posed  to  do  in  uttering  one  of  his  genteel  iavectivea 
ai^aiust  "  that  vile,  roguish  tobacco." 

9 


194  THE  HALF  sm. 

"The  taste  of  smoke  is  convanient  such  a  niglit  as  last 
night  was,"  said  the  boatman.  "  See  how  your  iiieud 
likes  it." 

The  passenger  replied  to  this  observation,  by  looking 
unusually  wise,  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  aifording,  by  a 
counter-indication,  a  clue  to  the  cause  of  his  "friudV 
peculiar  opinions,  and  by  touching  his  forehead  mysteriously 
with  his  finger. 

*'  Light?"  asked  the  boatman. 

*'  Cracked  !"  said  the  passenger.  "  Innocent.  In  some 
tings  only,  that  is.  For  you  never  see  how  he  can  talk  to 
you,  at  times,  as  sober  as  anybody — and  at  other  times 
with  a  tongue  that  you'd  think  woultl  never  tire ;  preachen 
like  the  clargy — and  at  others  again,  man  alive,  lie'd  ate 
you  up,  you'd  think,  for  the  turn  of  a  hand.  He  can't 
abide  any  o'  the  quality  at  all — that's  his  great  point — • 
being  brought  into  a  dale  o'  trouble  once,  on  their  accouQt. 
He  mislikes  all  gentlemen — " 

"  And  ladees  ?" 

"Iss,  then,  an  ladies — although  you  seem  to  misdoubt 
that  part  o'  my  story.  He  can't  abide  anything  o'  the 
sort.  Sure,  av  it  wasn't  for  that,  what  sort  of  a  livery 
would  this  be  for  me — his  own  gentleman  (for  tliai's  me 
title  be  rights,  though  1  darn't  claim  it  in  iiis  presence)  ? 
or  vvliat  sort  of  a  place  would  that  cabin  be  (though  indeed 
it's  a  nate  cabin  and  a  tight  little  hooker,  Jor  a  hooker, 
consideriui; — )  but  not  at  all  fitteu  for  au  estatcd  man  like 
bim." 

"  Where  is  he  from  ?" 

"  0  yetiien,  many's  the  place  we're  from  this  time  back, 
travellen  hether  an'  thether,  back'urds  an'  for'urds,  to  and 
fro,  this  way  an'  tliat  \\ay,  be  sea  an'  be  land,  on  ship- 
boord  and  every  boord,  in  Ayshec  and  Europe,  an'  Africuy 
an'  j\lerrikey,  an'  among  the  Turkies  and  Flinch  an' Creeks, 
au'  a  mort  o'  places  an'  things  more  thau  1  can  mintion  to 
you  now — but  latterly  it's  troin  Loudon  we're  comen,  hini' 


THE  HALF  SIR.  195 

self  being  nppoii'itecl  ono  o'  tlie  people  for  given  out  tlio 
money  to  the  poor  tluit's  left  ■witout  anython,  we  hear,  by 
raiscu  of  the  great  rain  that  was  hist  year,  that  pysin'd 
all  the  skiUaans  in  the  airth,  vhich  the  English  (an'  sure 
it's  a  new  story  wit  'em)  subsciibccl  for  'em — an'  sure  'twas 
good  of  'em  for  all." 

"  Why,  then,  it  was.  We  must  only  take  what  w3  can 
of  a  bad  debt,  and  sorrow  a  much  hopes  there  is  of  all  they 
have  of  ours,  be  all  accounts." 

"  But  it  was  a  great  relict,  wasn't  it?  The  male,  an'  tho 
enii)!oyment,  an'  i\\\  them  things." 

"  0  yethen,  middiin,  like  the  small  praties.  There  was 
a  mort  o'  money  sent  over,  I  hear;  but  then  it  was  all  mostly 
frittered  away  among  shocpurvisors  an'  clerKs  an'  them 
things,  ont'l  at  last  it  was  the  same  case  a'most  as  with 
the  poor  little  natural  that  laid  out  all  his  money  on  a 
purse,  and  then  had  nothen  to  put  in  it  aflher.  The  bene- 
fits that  the  English  (an'  sure  they  mam  well,  no  doubt, 
only  being  blir>dfolded  about  the  way  they'll  go  about 
sarven  uz) — the  benefits  they  strive  to  do  uz,  their  charter- 
schoo-ls,  an'  their  binnyfactions,  and  all  them  things,  re- 
niinds  me  of  the  ould  fable  of  Congcullion,  the  great  joy- 
ant,  long  ago,  which  in  diead  you  mightn't  have  heerd,  I'll 
tell  it  to  you.  Into  Ulster  it  was  they  marched  some 
troojis,  that  is,  of  the  king  o'  Connanght,  and  there  they 
wcr  bate  disgraceful,  and  they  run  for  their  life  as  you'd 
see  a  [^roctor  ran  at  sight  of  a  pike  ;  and  coiiicn  to  one  o' 
them  ould  castles  that  was  blown  up  sence  be  Cromwell 
(the  thief  o'  the  airth !)  they  saizcd  it,  and  kep  it,  and 
made  tliemsclves  up  in  it,  so  as  not  to  allow  the  sodgers  of 
the  King  of  Ulster  withinside  o'  the  walls.  Still  an'  all 
the  Ulster  bo3s  strapped  to,  an'  they  tuk  the  castle,  barren 
the  tower,  that  was  defended  by  an  ould  woman  only,  all 
the  rest  of  the  Connaught  boys  being  kilt  in  the  fight. 
You  see,  the  way  up  to  this  tower  was  very  cross,  intirely, 
being  up  one  o'  those  crooked  staircases  like  a  cork-screw, 


196  THE  HALF  sin. 

n  sccli  as  only  onem.'^.n  could  mount  at  a  time,  wliich  ho 
v.as  sorry  tor,  tiicre  being  a  key-hole  in  the  doore  at  tiie 
t^p,  fin'  the  oiild  hag  (the  rogue  !)  used  to  shoot  out  an 
arrow  out  of  it  and  through  it  with  it,  and  down  he'd  fall 
stone-dead  to  be  sure,  Au'  the  same  case  wit  the  one, 
wlioever  he'd  be,  that  would  cooni  up  after  hiai.  Well, 
the  king  of  Ulster  didn't  know  what  to  do,  an'  he  cidlcd 
a  council  o'  war,  an'  says  he  to  his  ginerals,  an'  lords,  an' 
all  the  great  people,  '  I'm  faiily  bothered,'  siz  he,  '  wit 
tliis  ould  'oman,  an'  what'll  we  do  at  all  wit  her?'  siz  he. 
'  I'll  tell  you  that,  then,'  says  one  of  his  great  ginerals  ; 
'  send  for  the  great  joyant  Congcullion,'  siz  he,  '  an  av  he 
don't  make  her  hop,'  says  he,  '  you  may  call  me  an  honest 
man.'  '  Who'll  go  for  him,'  siz  the  king  of  Ulster,  siz 
he,  '  or  where  is  he  to  be  had  ?'  siz  he.  'Con  of  the  Fieet- 
fuot  will  go  for  Lim,'  siz  thegineral  again,  mcauing  another 
joyant  that  uas  in  hearen.  Well  an'  good,  Con  of  the 
Floct-foot  was  sent  fur  Congculiion  the  joyant,  the  big  o' 
that  hill  ovcrright  us,  that  was  wandereu  over  and  hethcr 
in  the  woods  be  raisen  of  being  bate  in  a  fight  be  a  grand 
knight  o'  the  coort,  an'  haven  his  hair  cut  oOf  for  a  dis- 
grace. Well,  this  Con  (that  used  to  take  a  perch  o'  ground 
in  one  step)  he  travelled  some  hundreds  o'  miles,  an'  at 
last  he  found  my  lad  in  a  wood  in  Kerry  fast  asleep.  'Get 
up  here,'  siz  Con,  '  an'  come  wit  me,  an'  a  pretty  lad  you 
arc,'  siz  he,  *  to  have  me  comen  to  call  you,  an'  the  king 
en'  all  of  'era  wauten  you  all  so  fast,'  siz  Con,  siz  he. 
Well  became  Congcullion,  he  never  made  him  an  answer, 
being  fast  ai^leep  the  same  time.  So  what  does  Con  do 
but  to  take  his  soord  and  to  cut  off  the  little  finger  off  of 
him — and  then  you  see,  Congculiion  stretched  himself  and 
yawned  a  piece,  and  axed  what  was  the  matter,  or  what 
fly  was  it  that  was  tittlen  him  ?  Sj  Cou  up  and  tould 
him  the  wliolc  bizniss  from  first  to  last,  abuut  the  ould 
'oman,  and  the  rest  of  'em.  Well,  I'm  maken  a  long  story 
of  it,  they  come  to  the  king,  the  two  of  'em,  an  siz  Cong- 


THE  HALF  SIR.  1D7 

ciillion,  'Now  wlipre's  tin's  woman,'  siz  he,  '-or  wont  am  T 
to  do  witli  her,  and  sure  it's  .1  dioll  tiling  to  be  senden  all 
the  ways  to  Keiry  for  a  goisoon  like  meself  to  fight  au 
old  hag,'  siz  he.  '  Tiiere  sl:e  is  in  the  air  out  froiiteu 
you,'  siz  the  king.  So  he  looked  np,  and  what  slionld  he 
see  above  only  aqneru  stone,  like  that  they  uses  in  giinden 
the  whate,  and  the  hag  silten  up  upon  it,  and  shooten  down 
arrows  through  the  Iio!e  in  the  middle  at  the  king's  men, 
an'  she  llyen  about  that  Avay  be  magic  art  in  the  air  above. 
'Aha,  my  lady,'  thinks  Congcullion  in  his  own  mind,  but 
lie  said  iiothen,  '  I  think  I'll  soon  have  you  down  oiF  o' 
j-our  lilly-foal,  although  it  will  be  a  nice  mark  to  hit  off,' 
siz  he  to  himself,  manen  the  hole  in  the  quern.  No  sooner 
said  than  done,  he  tuk  and  he  shot  upau  arrow  right  through 
tlie  hole  and  through  the  woman  moreover,  an'  down  she 
an'  her  quern  came  tumblen  into  the  miildle  of  'em  and 
whack  upon  the  head  0'  Feardia,  one  0'  the  greatest  sodgers 
til  '  king  had,  au'  mcd  smithereens  of  him.  'Well,  didn't 
I  do  it?'  siz  Congcullion.  '0  yeh,"^  wisha  you  did,'  siz 
the  king,  '  an'  more  than  it — an'  I  never  seen  the  peer  o' 
you,'  siz  he,  '  for  whatever  good  you  do  you're  always  sure 
to  do  it  in  a  way  that  it  would  be  better  you  didn't  do  it 
at  all,'  siz  he.*  It's  the  same  way  wit  the  English  when 
they  try  to  do  good  for  uz  here  in  Ireland." 

"  Why  then  'tis  in  a  great  niCnsuie  true  for  you — but  still 
an'  all  it's  a  groat  thing  for  'cm  to  mane  well  any  way,  be- 
l^ays  be  that  mains  there's  hopes  they'll  be  set  right  one  timo 
or  another,  you  see." 

"  0  jeh,  then,  there  is.  I'ut  I'd  be  sorry  there  was  as 
little  hopes  of  our  comen  safe  to  shore  this  holy  mornen." 

AVhile  this  conversation  passed  belweeu  the  politician", 

*  Tradition  is  a  powerful  mnj^nifier.  Tiie  Lero  wlio  is  mentioncl 
in  tiie  abxve  legoiul,  iiiviiiys  in  O'iiaU.irairs  Ir.story  as  CongeuUiun, 
a  knight  of  the  lied  lirancli,  wliere  hid  dimeuiioas  sunnit  into  tUa 
coumiuu  Kcale  of  liuuianity. 


193  THE  HALF  SIC 

the  had  wMtlierwnich  liaJ  b;-eu  tliroitcnocl  by  the  n.ppcar« 
aiice  of  the  moniiiig,  began  to  make  its  word  good.  A 
small  hjiiids-omuly-rigged  sloop  was  the  ouly  vessel  that 
seenicd  likely  to  dispute  the  palm  of  superiority,  in  point  of 
speed,  with  the  hooker,  which  last,  as  it  appeared,  was  a 
sailer  of  high  reputation  ou  the  river,  and  the  trial  of  force, 
which  presently  took  place  between  them,  attracted  the  iii- 
teix'st  of  those  who  manned  the  more  unambitious  craft. 
Loud  were  the  shouts  of  the  crews  as  the  sloop  attempted, 
and  almost  succeeJed  in  coming  between  her  rival  and  the 
vvintl,  and  thus  causing  her  sails  to  slacken  and  deadening 
her  way  for  some  minutes  at  least ;  and  louder  yet  were  the 
sounds  of  gratulation  and  of  triumph,  when  the  latter,  ob- 
serving the  manoeuvre,  ran  suddenly  close  to  wind,  and  being 
enabled  by  the  snudlness  of  her  size  to  run  much  nearer  to 
the  shore  than  the  sloop,  soon  left  her  lumbering  far  upon 
the  lee.  But  the  interest  of  the  spectators  was  excited  to 
a  far  higher  degree  when  our  friends  in  tlie  hooker,  after 
calculating  with  a  precision  which  experience  enabled  them 
to  use,  the  diffi-rence  in  the  speed  of  both,  formed  the  hardy 
design  of  sailing  round  hor  foe,  and  thus  combining  utter 
and  absolute  disgrace  with  discomiiluro.  She  watched  her 
opportunity  well,  and  taking  as  much  "odds"  as  she  thought 
V,  ould  secure  her  triumph,  she  suffered  her  sails  to  fill,  loos- 
ened the  main-sheet,  and  put  the  helm  a  iiltle  to  windward. 
The  sloop  perceived  her  ins'jient  intention  and  attemjjted  to 
bafde  it  by  a  similar  procedure.  Fimling  that  she  was  not 
making  siilllcient  Avay,  however,  slie  struck  out  a  reef,  at 
the  risk  of  some  peiilous  "  hech'ng."  This  was  a  measure 
onv,  hich  the  hooker  had  not  reckuued.  She  jiersevered  in 
her  undertaking,  nevertheless,  and  swept  across  the  bjw  of 
her  rival  so  closely  that  the  next  plunge  of  ihe  haier  di- 
vided the  froth  which  shone  in  the  hooker's  wake.  Her 
triumph  was  complete,  ho\\ever,  and  the  simut  win. h  her 
crow  rai^jcd  us  siie  bounded  lleciiy  over  the  breakers  to  the 


THE  n..LF  SIR.  199 

Icewarcl,  was  answerecl  from  shore  to  shore  by  theboa'men 
of  the  surrounding  vessels,  who  had  watched  the  rather 
pcrilnus  assay  with  an  iiilciise  interest. 

While  sports  like  these  ^vere  used  to  checqner  the  tedi- 
onsness  of  their  river  voyage,  (tedious  to  them  from  their 
perfect  familiarity  with  all  its  magnificent  details  of  scenery,) 
they  were  making  rapid  progress  up  the  stream.  They  had 
now  passed  the  islet  of  Scattery,  with  its  round  tower  a'  1 
eleven  churciies — the  ruins  of  which  may  he  all  compre- 
hended in  a  single  coiij')  iVce'd — a  little  spot  which  iias 
been  immortalised  by  the  legend  of  St.  Seiianus,  and  wy 
the  sweet  melody  which  our  national  lyrist  has  founded  on 
the  sanie  subject.  The  snn  was  now  fully  risen,  and  as 
the  vessel  approached  the  Ihicc  of  Tarbort,  where  the  river 
dilates  to  the  extent  of  several  miles,  and  assumes  the  ap- 
pearance tf  a  considerable  lake,  the  most  agreeable  oppor- 
tunity was  afforded  to  the  voyagers  of  appreciating  all  the 
varieds  plendours  and  changes  of  this  celebrated  stream.  Ou 
the  left  was  the  bay  of  Clonderl.iw,  an  opening  of  some 
miles  in  extent,  where  the  red  and  ruilled  waters  presented, 
to  a  considerable  distance  from  the  shore,  on  either  side,  a 
marked  contrast  to  the  dark  green  hue  of  tliose  whicii  r;:n 
in  heavy  swells  and  breakers  in  the  channel  of  the  river. 
On  the  right  lay  the  villages  of  Tarbert  and  Glyn,  (the  he- 
reditary domain  of  the  far-famed  Knights  of  the  Valley,) 
while  the  undulating  face  of  the  surrounding  country  pre- 
sented an  appearance  of  sunny  richness  and  cultivation, 
which  rendered  the  scarcity  of  wood,  (the  only  void  by 
which  the  eye  could  have  been  otherwise  offended  in  glan- 
cing over  the  prospect)  scarcely,  if  at  all,  observable.  Tlie 
vide  surface  of  the  Kace  was  covered  with  innumerable 
vessels  of  all  kinds — brig^,  ships,  (as  three-masters  are 
here  emphaticaliy  termed)  schooners,  sloops,  turf-boats,  and 
Lookers.  The  heavy  sea,  which  ran  in  the  centre,  ren- 
dered 't  rather  a  dau'zerous  ])assagc  to  the  small  craft,  and 
many  of  them  were  obst-rved  lowering  their  peaks  andruu- 


200  THE  TTALr  SIR. 

nm^  to  flie  anolionng  places  near  shore — whiiP  oflicrs, 
with  sails  relied  close,  and  presenting,  from  tlie  liciglit  of 
their  turf  lading,  the  appearance  of  a  lighter  with  tiie  bot- 
tom upwards,  struggled  on  slowly,  battling  their  wnj  by 
inches  against  tlie  lieading  wind,  and  steejing  three  rows  of 
the  turf  which  covered  the  leeward  gunwale  in  the  heaving 
brine.  Now  and  then  a  huge  porpoise  was  seen  rclling  its 
black  and  nnwioldy  bulk  above  the  surface  of  the  waves,  in 
its  hungry  pursuit  of  a  terrified  salmon  (a  fish  in  which  the 
river  then  aboundcil,  though  the  weirs  which  have  been 
since  erected,  and  the  clatteriv'g  and  noisy  Lim<  rick  steam- 
boat have  rendered  them  mucii  nifre  rare  at  present) — 
and  at  longer  intervals,  the  head  of  a  Sfnl,  which  had  come 
np  from  his  peaceful  solitude  in  the  river's  bed  to  look  about 
him  and  see  how  the  worhl  was  going  on,  floateil  along  the 
surface,  like  (to  use  a  similitude  of  our  friend  in  the  hooker) 
"a  sod  of  handturf." 

They  passed  tho  perils  of  the  TJace,  and  entered  a  narrow, 
and  less  boisterous  channel,  celebrated  by  a  feat  executed 
by  a  knight  of  Glin,  similar  to  that  of  poor  Byron  at  the 
Dardanelles,  running  lietween  two  rather  elevated  pdints  of 
land  in  the  counties  of  Limerick  and  Clare,  where  the  woi'd 
was  more  generously  scattered  over  the  soil,  imjiarting  an 
air  of  greater  iinish  and  improvement  to  the  numerous  seats 
which  were  within  sight,  and  harmonizing  well  the  many 
ruins  that  lifted  their  ivied  and  tottering  bulk  on  the  emi- 
nences in  the  distance.  Farther  on,  the  S'l-.nnon  airain  di- 
lated to  a  breadth  of  several  miles,  atfonliiig  a  view  ot  a 
hilly  but  cultivated  country,  on  the  shores  of  which  tl  e 
waters  formed  numberless  creeks  and  petty  peninsulas,  stud- 
ded with  cottages  and  old  castles,  and  ornamented  on  the 
Clare  si<le  by  an  oak  wood  of  considerable  extent,  which^ 
skirted  the  anchorage  of  Laba  Sheeda  (the  silk  led,)  a  fa- 
vourite road  for  the  weather-bound  ship|  ing.  The  night 
fell  before  the  hooker  arrived  at  the  Gut  of  Foynes,  which 
yuan  her  resting-place  tor  the  night,  and  the  final  destination 


THE  HALF  SIR.  201 

of  twn  of  her  crew — the  brown-coated  passenger,  and  his 
companion,  or  master,  in  the  ca'oin. 

The  night  was  too  dark  and  stornij  to  admit  of  our  frienda 
landing  with  any  convenience,  so  that  the  genteel  politician 
Mas  compelled,  sorely  against  his  will,  to  avail  himself  of 
the  smoky  shelter  of  the  already  crowded  cabin,  until  the 
dawn.  This  was  not  long  in  arriving,  and  the  sun  arose  on 
a  scene  as  still  and  breathless,  as  if  the  elements,  exhausted 
by  tlie  labours  of  the  preceding  day,  had  agreed  to  celebrate 
a  Sabbath.  While  the  passenger  was  occun'c  1  in  getting 
his  companion's  luggage  safe  to  shore,  the  latter  walked 
slowly  up  toward  the  bold  and  jutting  point  of  land  called 
the  Kock  of  Foynes,  whicli  overlooked  a  scene  that  was 
dear  to  him  from  many  associations,  and  which,  for  these 
reasons,  and  for  its  own  beauty,  the  reader  will  permit  us 
to  sketch,  while  we  wait  the  approach  of  some  new  incident. 
He  stood  on  a  road  wiiich  appeared  to  have  been  cutout  of 
the  side  of  a  solid  rock,  of  a  clumsy  nature,  and  presented, 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  on  either  side,  one  of  the  finest 
highways  that  coukl  be  formed — as  level,  and  nearly  as 
bi'oad  as  a  ]\Iacadamized  street  in  the  l>ritish  nietropulis. 
At  his  back,  the  Rock  ascended  in,  at  first,  a  perpendicular 
and  then  a  sloping  form,  covered,  in  its  crevices  and  on  its 
summit,  with  heath  and  wild  flowers.  At  his  feet,  a  !-nd- 
denly  descending  earthy  cliff,  nnchccfpierod  by  the  slightest 
accident  of  vegetation,  walled  off  thj  waters  of  the  shan- 
non, and  presented  a  well  marked  contrast  to  the  green  and 
undulating  surface  of  the  small  islet  of  Foynes,  which  formed 
the  eastern  sliore  of  the  Gut,  and  looked  gay  and  sunriV  in 
the  morning  light.  At  the  base  of  the  ciiff,  tiie  waters  of 
the  Shannon  now  lay  hushed  iu  a  profound  repose,  as  if  the 
genius  of  the  stream,  who  had  yesterday  filled  the  air  with 
the  sounds  of  his  own  giant  minstrelsy,  were  now  lolling  at 
leisure  and  conning  over  the  song  of  a  summer  strcandet. 
A  wide  glassy  sheet  of  water,  on  which  a  few  dark-sailed 
boats  floated  idly  in  the  de;id  cahn,  lay  between  the  clilf 
9* 


202  THE  HALF  SIB. 

and  the  north,  or  Clare  shore,  wliich  again  present-jd  an 
abrupt  and  broken  barrier  to  the  silent  flood,  and  in  others 
fringed  its  marge  wilh  a  rich  mantle  of  elm  a-nd  oak  wood. 
Blue  hills,  cottages  (which  filled  up  the  landscape  not  the 
less  agreeably  tiiat  t!i*y  were  the  abode  of  sickness  and  of 
misery)  formed  an  appropriate  distance  to  tliis  part  of  the 
hxndscape.  Further  on  the  right  lay  the  dreary  flat  of 
Ahanish,  and  further  still,  a  distant  prospect  of  a  wide, 
barren,  and  craggy  eount.ry,  t'.ie  limestone  surface  of  which 
was  baked  and  whitened  by  the  summer  heat.  This  ratlier 
unfavourable  portion  of  the  scene,  however,  was  so  distant 
as  not  to  afl:ect  in  any  degree  the  general  air  of  richness 
which  formed  the  fundamental  character  of  the  landscape. 

"  Why  thin  we  travelled  far,  sir,  to  see  places  in 
foreign  parts  that  worn't  anytheu  to  that  for  beauty,"  was 
the  reflection  of  the  humbler  of  the  voyagers,  as  he  sidled 
up,  noiselessly,  behind  his  companion,  and  contemplated 
the  scene  over  his  shoulder.  However  disposed  the  latter 
might  be  to  admit  the  justice  of  the  observation,  the  un- 
couth phrase  in  which  it  was  couched  did  not  appear  to 
please  him,  for  he  turned  aside  with  an  abrupt  and  fretted 
"psha  !"  and  walked  up  the  road. 

"  If  he  hasn't  any  raisun  himself,  he  might  hear  to  it 
from  another,"  said  Rimmy  (for  it  was  no  other  than  he) 
discontentedly  ;  "  it's  like  the  dog  in  the  manger.  Ho 
hasn't  but  little  brains  of  his  own,  and  he  won't  let  any- 
body else  use  them  any  farther  than  he  can." 

At  this  moment  the  attention  of  both  v/as  attracted  by 
the  app.'arance  of  a  handsome  tilbiiiy  at  the  turn  of  the 
rock,  wiiich  drove  ra])idly  towards  them.  IJefsire  they  had 
time  to  observe  the  rank  or  quality  of  the  travellers  (a  lady 
and  geutlcman),  a  startling  incident,  very  strange  and  un- 
accountable to  the  new  comers,  though  of  latally  frcqucut 
oecurrence  in  this  quarter  of  Ireland  at  the  period  in  ques- 
liou,  intcrrupLed  llieir  speculations.  A  slvjt,  glancing  trom 
the  hiil  above  the  rock,  grazjd  the  person  of  tlie  gcnLieinau 


THE  HALF  SIR.  203 

who  hpid  the  rrin^,  niid  glancing' ofT  tlie  little  Sf^otch  coped 
parapet  near  lleinmy,  cut  with  a  riisliinp;  sound  tiiruu::,ri|  the 
cahn  bosom  of  the  river.  A  shrill  halloo  of  mistaken 
triumph  at  the  same  instant  rung  through  the  peaceful 
scene,  and  fiamond,  looking  up,  saw  on  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  giizing  on  the  spot,  and  standing  in  dark  relief  against 
the  blue  morning  skv,  the  figure  of  a  man,  his  long  crane 
neck  extended  to  its  full  length,  his  enormous  hooked  nose 
looking  like  the  beak  of  an  eagle  uplifted  over  his  prey, 
and  his  long,  thick,  •white  hair  thrown  straight  backwards, 
as  if  he  had  been  (naturally  as  well  as  morally)  all  his  life 
running  against  the  wind.  Perceiving  his  error,  he  used 
an  action  of  disappointment,  and  disappeared.  Hasiond 
turned  his  eyes  again  on  the  tilbury,  and  perceived  that 
although  Providence  had  saved  the  travellers  from  one 
danger,  they  were  not  yet  free  from  its  no  less  peiilous 
con-equences.  The  horse,  terrified  by  the  report  of  the 
gun,  had  set  back  several  yards,  and  turning  its  head 
toward  the  clitt",  began,  in  spite  of  all  the  exertions  of  the 
driver,  mIio  had  cause  enough  for  alarm  already,  to  back 
rapidly  towards  the  precipice.  Remmy,  starting  from  the 
stnpor  into  which  he  had  been  thrown  by  this  unruly  wel- 
come to  his  native  land,  ran  quickly  to\\  ards  the  travellers 
and  Succeeded  in  seizing  the  reins  just  as  the  wheels  had 
gained  the  little  footpath  on  the  verge. 

"Fool anddoIt,"said  Hamond, contemptuously,  as  Remmy 
assisted  the  portly  driver  to  dismount,  and  aided  i.iui  in  ai-- 
ranging  the  harness.  "  How  lie  bows  and  cringes  !  He 
touches  his  hat  and  fawns,  as  if  he  were  the  rescued  wretch 
liimselt^ — as  if  he  had  not  given  that  pompous,  pampered 
thing,  his  very  existence.  It  is  so  all  over  the  world.  lu 
every  corner  of  the  earth,  the  same  degrading  tyranny  is 
exercised.  The  rich  persecute  the  poor — and  the  licher  the 
rich.  The  proud  insult  the  humble,  and  they  too  have  their 
insolent  superiors.  Ha  !  he  tosses  him  a  piece  of  money. 
It  is  tlius  that  the  services  of  the  poor  ai-e   always  Viilued. 


204  THE  HALF  SIB. 

Ko  mntter  wliat  tlie  sacrifice  maybe — of  per-'o^al  safety — > 
of  toil — of  health — of  heart's  ease  and  all  self-interest,  the 
highboAMi  ingrate  thinks  he  is  mor-e  than  quit  of  all  obli- 
gation, by  flinging  an  atom  from  his  hoards,  to  the  real 
owner — flinging  it  too  as  tliat  man  did,  at  his  feet — not 
to  bo  taken  from  the  earth  without  defiling  his  fingers." 

The  tilbury  at  this  moment  drove  up,  and  Hamond,  al- 
though he  had  purposely  turned  aside  fi-om  the  road,  fir  the 
purpose  of  avoiding  them,  could  see  that  ke  was  closely  ob- 
served, by  both  the  lady  and  her  friend,  whether  that  in 
their  fright  they  took  him  for  one  of  the  assassins,  or  re- 
cognised him  for  his  real  self,  he  could  not  conjecture. 

"0  murther,  sir!"  said  llcmray,  as  he  ran  toward  his 
master  with  open  mouth  and  eyes — "  did  you  ever  see  the 
peer  o'  that?  In  the  broad  daylight — and  the  open  street 
— maken  no  more  o'  you,  than  ov  you  wor  a  dog,  just. 
We'll  be  kilt,  fairly,  sir,  in  a  mistake.  S'lic  there  I  was 
meself  shot — dead— -with  a  bullet  in  the  middle  o'  me  brains, 
within — only  just  you  see  that  it  barely — barely — missed 
me." 

"  Why  did  yon  delay  so  long  after  you  had  done  all  that 
was  necessary  ?" 

"I'll  tell  you  that,  sir.  Why  did  I  stop  so  long?  She 
axed  me — no — not  me,  naither — but  when  I  was  just  piit- 
ten  up  the  bearen  rein — the  lady — 'pnn  me  word,  sir,  s!;e 
is  a  spirited  little  woman,  I  declare  she  is  now — the  man 
was  twice  as  much  frightened  as  wisat  she  was — I  c(mldH't 
liclp  admiron  her  in  me  heart,  she  took  it  so  aisy — A  party 
crathur  too  I  declare.  But  as  I  was  sayen,  she  hid  her 
face  from  me  in  her  veil  (though  T  know  'twas  handsome 
be  the  sound  o'  the  voice)  and  whispered  to  t'iie  gentlcniaa 
(be  the  same  token  he  made  me  a'most  laugh,  he  was  in 
such  a,  flurry — calling  me  '  ma'am,'  and  '  my  dear,'  and 
sometimes  '  my  lord' — being  fairly  fi-iglitened  out  of  I'.is  siviil 
sinses — the  poor  man.  He's  a  magistlirut,  it  seems,  and 
not  over  aa  above  quiet,  for  which  raison  one  o'  the  lacls 


THE  HALF  513,  205 

comes  clown  to  have  a  crack  at  him  from  the  rock,  as  if  he 
was  a  saagull — thongli  I'll  be  bound  he  isn't  air  a  gull  at  all, 
now)  ;  but  as  I  was  saycn,  she  whispered  the  gentleman, 
aud  he  turns  to  me,  and  says  he,  'Isn't  your  name  Jemmy 
Alune?'  siz  he.  'Not  Jemmy,  but;  Remmy,' siz  the  lady 
(I  declare  I  never  thougi.t  me  name  would  sound  so  sweet) 
— 'Tisplase  your  honour,  mi'am,'  siz  I.  So  she  whispered 
the  genileman  again,  an'  says  he  to  me — '  Mr.  Salmon,  your 
master,'  says  he,  '  where  is  lie  ?'  Well,  I  thought  I'd  drop 
down  laughen,  whin  I  heard  him  call  your  honour  Salmon, 
'  lie's  no  such  odd  fish  as  that  indeed,  sir,'  siz  I,  '  but  such 
as  he  is,  there  he  is  a})pozzit  uz  on  the  road  over.'  So  they 
druv  away,  the  two  of 'em.  Tiie  gentleman  is  a  Scotc'iman, 
and  I  don'c  know  who  can  the  lady  be.  He  thrun  me  some- 
thing, fur  a  7'icompince  as  he  called  it.  I  suppose  ricom- 
jrince  is  Scotch  fur  one-an-eight-pcnce." 

After  having  with  subdued  impatience  listened  to  the 
whole  of  this  tedi  jus  harangue,  Hamond  dispatched  his  ser- 
vant to  the  Castle  for  the  purpose  ot  making  the  necessary 
arrangements  before  his  arrival,  telling  him  that  he  would 
saunter  on  slowly  over  the  hill,  by  a  path  which  he  remem- 
bered fiom  his  boyhoud,  so  as  to  reach  Castle  Hamond  by 
nuon. 

"  How  selGihly  and  vainly,'*  thought  ITamond,  afrer 
lieramy  departed,  "  Las  all  njy  long  life  been  spent,  and 
what  would  be  niy  ansAver  if  that  shut  had  (as  it  might 
well  have  done)  taken  in  this  weak  head  or  v,  icked  heart; 
ia  its  course,  and  sent  me  to  hear  the  great  accounting 
question — '  In  how  much  mankind  had  been  the  better  or 
tiie  worse  for  iny  sojouniiiig  amongst  them  ?'  Let  me,  as 
I  have  lived  so  totally  for  myself  hitherto,  endeavour,  be- 
fore tiie  sun  goes  down,  to  fulfil  even  a  portion  of  my  ne- 
glected duty  to  others.  Let  me,  since  my  own  hope  of 
i.itjtpiuess  in  this  life  is  now  for  ever  and  for  ever  eniLJ, 
eudeavour  to  forget  its  sorrows,  and  occupy  myself  only  in 
auvaucaig  that  of  others — f^r  happiness  is  a  gift  which  a 


206  THE  HALF  SIR, 

man  may  want  himself  and  yet  bestow.  I  have  seen 
enough  of  the  world  to  know  that  even  if  I  had  succeeded  in 
all  my  youthful  wishes  I  sliould  not  have  succeeded  in 
satisfying  my  ov/n  wants.  If  I  had  married  Emily  Bury 
(he  paused,  and  piTssed  his  hand  on  his  brow  as  the 
tliought  suggested  itself  to  him)  I  might  be  now  mourning 
over  her  early  grave.  Is  it  not  something  that  I  knov,-  she 
yet  lives — that  she  treads  the  same  earth — breathes  the 
same  air,  and  is  warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same  winter 
and  summer  as  Ilamond  is  ?  Let  this  content  me.  Let 
me  not  risk  the  small  share  of  peace  which  remains  to  my 
heart  by  forming  new  attachments  (new  ?  alas  I) — rather, 
I  should  say,  by  indulging  the  memory  of  the  old,  since 
the  '  covenants  of  the  world'  are  sure  to  die.  Let  me 
rather  fondle  and  indulge  the  impulses  of  a  generous  bene- 
volence, v.hich  the  action  of  my  selfish  sorrow  has  so  long 
retarded  within  me,  and  let  my  fellow-creatures  be  dear  to 
me  for  his  sake  whose  wish  it  is  to  be  loved  through  his 
own  bright  creation,  but  not  superseded  by  it.  And  where 
should  I  tiud  objects  worthy  of  such  care,  if  not  in  my 
own  impoverished  and  degraded  country  ?  j\ly  poor, 
humble  friends  !  why  did  I  ever  leave  your  simple  cottage 
circles — your  plain,  rough,  natural  manners,  and  kindly, 
though  homely  affcclion,  for  the  tinsel  of  a  world  that  has 
deceived  and  disappointed  me — ^the  glitter  and  smiles  of  a 
rank  that  has  decoyed  and  scorned  me,  and  the  false- 
hearted seeming  of  a  love  that  has  left  me  but  a  bruised 
and  heavy  heart,  a  loaded  memory,  and  a  sapless  hope  fur 
the  even-tide  of  my  life." 

He  was  interrupted  by  some  person's  plucking  his  coat 
skirt,  and  addressing  him,  at  the  same  time,  in  a  voice 
wiiich  seemed  to  be  rendered  feeble  and  broken  by  disease 
or  exhaustion.  "  Somethen  fur  the  tubaccy,  plase  your 
honuur,  and  the  Lord  in  his  mercy  save  you  frum  the  sick- 
ness o'  the  year." 

ilamond    turaci    round,    and    beheld  a   countryman. 


THE  HALF  SIR.  207 

mukl!e-ngccl,  as  it  nppeavcd  from  Iiis  dark  and  cnrling  hair, 
although  his  squalid,  worn,  and  ragged  appearance  might 
otherwise  have  left  the  matter  in  dnbiety.  Our  liero,  who 
had  been  absent  from  home  sufHcientlv  long  to  forget  nearly 
all  the  peculiarities  of  his  countrymen,  was  not  a  little  sur- 
prised to  hear  this  poor  fellow,  who  seemed  about  to  perish 
for  want  of  the  common  necessaries  of  life,  petitioning  for 
what  appeared  to  him  a  hixury. 

"  Something  for  tobacco  !"  he  repeated  ;  "  w'liy,  my 
poor  man,  you  seem  more  in  ^^ant  of  bread  than  of  to- 
bacco." 

"A  little  o' that  same  would  be  no  hurt,  piase  your 
honour,  but  we  can't  expect  to  have  everything." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ? — why  do  you  walk  so 
fetblv  ?" 

"  The  sickness  gncn  I  had,  sir." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  The  fever,  plase  your  honour,"  said  the  man,  staring 
at  him  with  some  surprise.  "  Indeed,  I'm  finely  now, 
thank  Heaven,  but  I  think  'twould  be  a  great  strengtheneu 
to  me,  inwardly,  if  I  had  the  i)rice  o'  the  tobaccy,  it's  oO 
long  since  I  tasted  it." 

"  Do  you  live  in  tliis  neighbouriiood  ?" 

"  I  do,  plase  your  honour,  in  regard  my  wife  and  two 
cM'der  (poor  crathurs!)  has  the  sickness,  above  in  the 
field,  an'  I  couldn't  remove  'cm  a  while.  Heaven  is  mer- 
ciful, sir,  an'  only  for  it,  sure  what  would  we  do  ?  for  we 
hadn't  anython  at  all,  an'  the  people  (small  blame  to  'cm, 
indeed,  for  it)  wouldn't  coom  a-near  uz,  in  dread  o'  the 
sickness  (being  taking),  ontil  Miss  0'15rien,  the  Lord  be 
good  to  her,  gev  uz  a  ticket  for  the  riiale,  an'  soom  money 
an'  other  things,  an'  she'd  give  more,  I  b'lieve,  if  she  knew 
I  had  more  than  meself  i]i,  an'  that  we  wor  wii'out  a  roof 
over  uz,  which  I  was  delikit  of  tellen  her ;  for  'twould  be 
too  much  to  suppose  we  should  all  of  uz  have  enough,  au' 
wliat  ao  one  is  born  lo,  hardly,  except  he  was  a  geuti  jmau." 


£08  THE  HALF  srR. 

'■  Lot  mc  sr!e  wliore  3'oii  live,"  sakl  IlfimonJ,  "if  .'t  is 
Lot  very  far  out  of  the  svay. " 

"  Ou!y  a  small  half  mile,  plase  voiiv  honour.  I  can't 
walk  only  poorly,  but  your  honour  is  goo  J,  an'  tlie  place 
isn't  fnr." 

While  they  proceeded  alon,^  the  path  through  the  fields, 
t!;e  man  gave,  at  Ilamond's  desire,  a  short  account  of  the 
circumstances  wliicli  had  reduced  him  to  his  present  condi- 
tion, which,  as  they  are  in  themselves  intorestinj',  and  pre- 
sent a  tolerably  fiuthful  picture  of  a  Munster  cottage  life, 
we  shall  veuture  to  transcribe. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

As  for  uJjsf'nence,  or  Jastinj,  it  is  to  them  a  famUiar  Icind 
of  chustUemeut L'AM^IO^'"s  Ireland, 

*'  Was  it  always^the  same  case  wit  me  as  it  is  row  ?  Is  it, 
your  honour  is  axcn  me  ?  Ah,  no,  sir,  that  would  be  too 
b'^d  ;  I  had  my  pleasure  in  me  day,  as  well  as  others,  and 
inileed,  I  have  no  raison  to  complain,  considering,  thanks 
be  to  Heaven  !  and  if  I  had  only  praties  enough  to  keep 
above  ground  for  a  few  years  more  just  to  make  my  soul* 
(a  thing  I  was  ever  too  negligent  of),  I  tliink  a  prince 
couldn't  be  better  off.  Do  you  see  that  large  field  over- 
right  uz,  sir  ?  Whin  I  was  a  slip  of  a  boy,  about  eight- 
een or  that  way,  that  was  a  great  place  for  the  Kobertstown 
an'  Slianagolden  girls  to  come,  blachen  their  coorte  thread, 
an'  bekays  they  sliould  lave  it  out  all  night,  they  used  to 
stay  themselves  watciien  it,  (in  dread  it  should  be  stulen 
off  the  wattles)  in  the  summer  nights,  tellen  stories  an' 
cn!sh(€7ii)i(/'f  away  till  mornen.  At  th.e  first  light  then, 
tiie  boys  o'  the  place  would  tome  with  fiddles  an'  flutes, 
and  there  they'd  be  before  'em.    Kitly  O'Bricnceu  with  hcf 

*  To  Ettcaii  to  Ins  religious  duties.  f  Gos.iippin<j.  ■ 


THE  HALF  SIR.  209 

hnndliert  o*  tlirend,  an'  Nelly  Kilmartin  ■with  her  hnndhert 
o'  thread,  an'  all  the  rest  of  'em  with  tlieir  hundherts, 
blacheii,  an'  then  the  hco'jh*  v/oiild  begin — daneen,  an' 
joken,  an'  laiighen,  an'  singen,  till  it  was  broad  daj.  Well, 
of  all  the  gals  there,  Kitty  O'Brien  was  the  favouiito  with 
the  boys,  sech  a  sweet  smiien  crathnr!  though,  indeed,  my- 
self didn't  think  very  bauf  of  her,  till  one  morncn  axen  her 
to  jine  me  in  a  slip  jig ;  '  She's  goeu  to  dance  a\  it  a  better 
nan,'  says  Batt  Miiiahan,  that  was  very  sweet  upon  her 
the  same  time,  an'  i  knowen  nothen  of  it.  '  She'll  go 
firdier  than  the  tiehl,  thin,'  says  I,  '  for  he  isn't  here  any 
way.'  '  He  is,'  says  Batt,  '  stant'en  out  before  you,'  siz 
he.  '  Is  it  yourself  you  uiane  ?'  siz  I,  lookeu  dovm  upon 
hiin.  '  'Tis,  to  be  sure,'  tiz  he.  '  'Twould  take  another 
along  wit  you  to  be  ab:e  to  say  it,'  siz  I.  AVel!,  whin  two 
foulish  bo}  s  come  together,  an'  a  woman  by,  'tis  but  a  shori; 
shp  from  words  to  blows.  Batt  an'  I  tackled  to  ('m  suro 
small  blame  to  him,  an'  the  sweetheart  hstenen),  an'  v,e 
culled,  and  we  bate,  an'  mc  kicked,  an'  we  pulled,  an'  we 
dr.igged  one  another,  till  there  was  haidiy  a  slcreed  o' 
c'-o.heu  left  upon  our  backs,  an'  the  boys  med  a  ring  for 
iiz,  and  they  huUooen,  and  tiie  girls  screcchen,  and  the 
A\hole  place  in  one  i)illilu !  An'  tlien  we  pult  the  wattles 
out  o'  Kitty's  thread,  an'  we  big'n  wattlen  one  another 
over  the  head  an'  shoulders,  till  the  sticks  was  broke  in  our 
hands.  Well,  it  was  the  uill  of  Heaven  I  got  the  upper 
hand  o'  Batt  that  same  time,  an'  bet  him,  an'  pummelled 
him,  till  1  didn'c  lave  him  a  leg  to  stand  upon — an'  then  I 
danced  the  slip  jig  with  Kitty.  Well,  I  never  thought 
much  o'  Kitty  before,  but  my  heart  warmed  to  her  after  I 
lighten  for  her,  an'  we  wor  married  agen  next  Advent. 
Batt  (an'  sure  small  blame  to  him)  never  could  bear  the 
sigi.th  o'  me  after.  I  lost  a  little  by  it,  too,  for  I  was 
ihinkeu  of  another  girl  before  that,  a  girl  that  had  as  good 
as  hfteeu  pounds  of  her  own — but  she  wasn't  a  patch  upon 
*  Full.  t  Very  liiglily. 


2'0  THE  HALF  Sir:. 

Kitty  for  manners  an'  beauty.  Little  T  tlionght  I'd  he  one 
day  taken  yci-iiunour  to  see  that  same  Kitty,  stretclied  in  a 
d}ke,  on  the  broad  of  her  back,  in  the  sickness — but  Hea- 
ven is  merciful,  an'  we'll  get  her  out  of  it  again  I  liop'^ 
'T would  delight  your  honour  to  hear  Kitty's  cry — she  had 
the  best  cry  in  tlie  parish." 

"The  best  cry  ? 

"  Yes,  sir,  for  an 'ollogone,' or  'ullilu!  after  a  funeral, 
or  at  a  v/ake-house.  When  Kitty  had  one  ghiss  o'  sperits, 
jest  to  clear  her  vice,  you'd  wonder  to  hear  her.  I]e.-ides, 
Kitty  had  a  very  fine  back,  an'  the  other  girl  hadn't  air  a 
back  at  all,  notlien  to  spake  of." 

Haniond,  who  was  hunself  a  connoisseur  in  female  pro- 
portions, entered  with  a  readier  sympathy  into  his  compa- 
nion's admiration  of  this  hitter  quality  than  the  preceding 
cue,  hut  was  again  benighted  when  the  other  went  on  with 
nis  eyc^raiam. 

"  Indeed,  I  had  but  a  very  poor  back  myself  at  the  same 
time,  an'  1  could  hardly  0])en  my  mouth  or  say  a  word  any 
where  in  regard  of  it.  So  I  tuk  Kitty's  bade  rather  than 
the  fifteen  pound  forten,  an'  then  I  had  as  large  an'  as  fine 
a  back  as  air  a  boy  in  the  county — then  who  daar  cough 
at  me,  or  tread  on  me  coat  in  the  puddle  ?  None — for 
Kitty's  back  stood  by  me  always,  at  fair  or  market." 

"Aly  good  fellow,  I  can  hardly  understand  you.  It 
seems  you  thought  the  larger  Kitty's  bacli  was  the  better." 

"  To  be  sure,  sir." 

"And  then  you  had  no  back  at  all  yourself — " 

"  Till  I  married  Kitty,  sir — " 

"And  then  you  had  as  large  a  back  as  any  body  ?  Wliat 
am  I  to  understand  tVum  this,  if  you  are  noL  amusing  yo  ir- 
fielf  at  my  expense?  wiiat  do  you  mean  by  your  l);»ck?" 

"  Back  ! — Faction,  sir — laetiou  for  fighteu.  Is  it  I  to 
be  funnen  your  honour  ?" 

'•O'-,"  Slid  Ilamond. 

*'  Well,  sir,  we  married,  as  I  told  your  honour,  an'  if  we 


THE  HALF  SIR,  e.ll 

did  vro  <:nt  a  small  bit  of  land,  very  SRUg,  and  had  a  lase 
of  it,  an'  fiot  on  very  well  for  a  few  years,  an'  a  conp'e  ol 
cratliurs  w'uh  v.z,  an'  we  wor  finely  off  with  plenty  o'  praties, 
an'  milk  now  an'  ajjen,  but  that  was  too  good  a  story  to  last, 
and  the  big'nen  of  our  troubles  came  on.  This  was  the 
way  of  it.  Tlie  owner  o'  the  estate  that  we  riiited  the 
cabin  friira  had  a  fine  bog  within  about  three  miles  from 
us,  an'  he  v/antcd  us,  and  all  the  tenants,  to  cut  our  turf 
upon  it,  an'  not  upon  a  bog  bclongen  to  anotlier  man  liven 
a-ncar  uz  ;  but  then  we  hadn't  the  mains  o'  drauen  it  such 
a  distills,  an'  not  being  in  our  I."SO,  we  didn't  do  it.  He 
didn't  forget  this  for  uz  (indeed  I  don't  blame  him  either, 
consid;iing) — but  he  couldn't  get  a  vacancy*  at  uz  for  a 
long  time,  for  we  took  care  always  to  have  the  difference 
o'  the  rent  agen  the  gale  day  any  way.  Well,  sir,  at  last 
what  do  you  think  liajipened  to  uz  ?  The  minister  that 
lived  in  the  same  parish,  was  made  agent  to  our  landlord, 
an'  so  when  v.-e  went  to  pay  our  gale,  what  does  he  do  but 
take  his  own  tithen  out  o'  the  rent  I  brought  him,  an'  hand 
me  back  the  rest,  sa3en,  'Here,  me  good  man,'  siz  he, 
you're  onder  a  mistake — the  rent  is  l)L  more,  siz  he  (fuc 
pound  being  his  own  tithes).  '  Well,'  siz  I,  'I  ncvur  seen 
the  peer  o'  that  for — '  Tor  what  ?'  siz  he.  'Nothing,'  siz 
I,  but  I  said,  'loguery,'  within  me  own  mind.  'Give  me 
the  rent,'  siz  he,  'or  I'll  eject  you.'  'Let  me  go  for  it,'  siz 
I.  'flow  far  have  you  to  go  ?'  siz  he.  'Something  fir- 
ther,'  siz  I,  'than  I'd  trust  ^ou.'  'How  far  is  that?'  siz 
he.  'Just  as  far  then,'  siz  I,  'as  I  could  throw  a  bull  by 
the  tail.'  Indeed,  I  did,  sir,  say  it  to  him.  AVell,  he 
never  forgay  me  that  word. 

"  When  I  came  back  with  the  rent,  he  wouldn't  have 
it  at  all.  ri.iht  go  wrong.  'Very  well,  then,'  siz  I,  'if 
you  don't  like  it,  lave  it — you  can't  say  but  I  offored  it  to 
you.*  ^\n'  well  the  rogue  knew  the  same  time,  that  the 
cli'br  wasn't  goi  d  in  law,  inasmuch  as  there  wasn't  air  a 
*  An  opporLuuity  of  revenge. 


2i2  71! 2  HALF  sin. 

witr.ess  to  it,  fin'  I  l^nowen  rollien  of  it  at  f'll,  till  Jnlinny 
Doe  coom  down  npon  nio,  r.n'  let  me  know  it  when  it  was 
too  late.  AVell  I  ncviir  '11  forget  the  day,  wljn  poor  Kitty, 
and  the  childer,  an'  mcself,  wor  turned  out,  Avith  the  choice 
of  token  a  bng  on  onr  back,  or  listing,  whichever  I  liked.* 
An'  that's  the  way  it  was  with  nz  scnce,  ramblen  over  an' 
hethcr  about  the  oountrj-,  ont'I  this  summer,  when  th.e 
womanc?n  tuk  ill  in  the  sickness,  an'  the  crathnrs  along 
wit  her,  an  there  was  an  end  of  the  whole  biziness,  when 
I  got  it  mesolf — an'  the  four  lyen  ill  together,  without  one 
to  mind  uz,  ont'I  the  priest  was  so  good  as  to  have  the 
little  hut  made  over  uz  wit  a  foew  sticks  and  some  scran'.<:,f 
aixl  straw  onder  uz,  so  that  we  wor  quite  comfortable — 
and  thanks  to  the  ni:if>:ldjour,?,  wor  in  no  want  of  potaties, 
an'  male  moreover,  (that  they  say  the  English  sent  uz 
over) — a  thing  we  didn't  taste  for  many  a  Icng  year  before 
■ — signs  on  Ave're  getten  over  it  finely — an'  I  tliink  if  I  had 
a  pe'uorth  o'  tobaccy,  I  wouldn't  a>:  to  be  bettor,  moreover, 
when  I  see  so  many  more  worse  olT  than  mesclf  in  the  coun- 
try.    Plere's  the  place,  plase  your  honour." 

liamoud  had  heard  much,  during  his  residence  hi  Eng- 
land, of  the  misery  which  Vvas  at  this  time  prevailing  in 
his  native  country — he  had  road  many  of  th.e  popuhir  novels 
of  the  day,  ■which  had  made  Ireland  and  Irish  suffering 
their  scene  and  subject;  but  allowing  a  latitude  for  the  ancient 
privilege  of  story-tellers,  he  was  totally  unprepared  to  find 
their  representations  actually  surpassed  by  the  reality.  lie 
beheld  in  the  ditch  before  him  a  shed  (if  it  could  be  called 
so)  not  high  enough  to  admit  him  without  creei)ing  on  all 
lours,  and  so  small,  that  the  person  of  poor  "  Kittj"  oc- 
cupied nearly  the  entire  length.  It  was  foimcd  in  the 
manner  described  by  the  wretciicd  owner,  in  the  hollow  of 
a  dryditcl!,  with  a  lew  sticks  jjlaced  by  way  of  roof  against 
t!w  lop  of  the  next  hcd^e,   and  covered   with  sods  of  thi; 

'  Uei^-giiiij;  and  IKiii^c;-,  <ite  tlir  u;ua!  alNn?'*ti-'es  'a  Aluasiler. 
f  Tliia  sods  (?(.'  gieoi  p^at 


THE  UAhV  s\n.  213 

green  tnrf.  One  end  of  this  mis.'^rable  edliico  was  sutfored 
to  remain  open,  and  tliroiigli  this  aperture  Ilaniontl  was 
enabled  to  take  cognizance  of  a  woaian  half  clad,  and  two 
children  lyii)ii;  on  a  heap  of  strav/,  moaning  heavily,  either 
from  pain  or  debiiity.  The  hot  splendour  of  a  summer  sun 
crisped  and  dried  the  short  grass  upon  the  roof  about  tlioir 
heads. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  said  he,  "  that  year  nights  are  spent 
under  uo  better  shelter  than  this  ?" 

*'  Oh,  what  better  would  we  want,  sir,  tliis  fine  weather, 
praise  be  to  heaven  ?  Indeed,  the  first  nights  we  wor 
worse  off,  for  we  slept  in  the  open  air,  an'  the  iieavy  dews 
at  niglit  kilt  us  entirely,  an'  we  haven  nothen  but  boiled 
nettles  to  ait.  So  that  we  ought  to  be  very  thankful  to 
heaven,  an'  after  to  the  neighbours,  that  wor  so  good  as  to 
make  tliis  snug  little  place  fur  uz.  Well,  my  darlen,  how 
is  it  the  pain  wit  you,  an'  the  wakeucss  ?  See  here's  a 
fine  gentleman  coom  to  sec  you  an'  the  crathurs,  darleu  o' 
my  hefw-t." 

"  The  Lord  be  good  to  him  for  so  doen,  Duaat ;  'tis 
batter  with  me." 

"  Well,  heaven  is  good,  Kitty,  an  we'll  be  soon  all  well 
an  sprightly  agen,  plase  God." 

A  low  sigh  was  the  only  answer  to  this  consoling  predic- 
tion. Hamond,  touched  no  less  by  these  indications  of 
tenderness  and  affection  in  natures  so  unpolished,  than  by 
the  misery  wliich  made  them  necessary,  placed  in  the  hands 
of  his  guide  all  that  was  wanted  for  present  purposes,  pro- 
mising at  the  same  time  to  take  care  for  their  future  con- 
dition as  soon  as  he  should  arrive  at  Castle  Ilamond.  Tlie 
poor  people  overwhelmed  him  with  thanks  and  benedictions 
— and  '^  Dunat"  (as  the  old  woman  called  her  husband)  in- 
sisted on  conducting  him  farther  over  the  hill. 

"Tiicre's  Dat  Miuahan's  house  over,  sir,"  said  he,  point- 
ing out  a  neat  wliite-washed  cottage.  "  It  was  a  lucky 
day  for  Uat,  the  morucu  he  come  off  second  best  wit  me. 


214  THE  HALF  SIR- 

He  gov  np  {iglitcn,  and  mavrlcfl  the  ^nrl  with  the  fifteen 
pounds,  au'  signs  on  there's  the  way  lie  is,  an'  here's  the 
way  I  am.  An'  there's  the  fiekl  I  fusht  met  Kitty.  I 
declare,  sir,  I  never  go  by  tliat  iieUl  of  an'  evenen,  but  my 
heart  is  as  heavy  as  lead,  and  I  feels  as  lonesome  as  auy- 
then  yon  uvrr  s?e,  thinken  of  ould  times  an'  things." 

"  "Well,  my  good  man,  keep  up  your  spirits,  and  it  may 
be  as  well  with  you  as  with  Bat  Minahan  yet.  But  I 
would  advise  you  to  make  as  little  use  of  your  bach  as 
possible." 

"  O'l,  back  or  front,  your  honour,  it's  a  long  time  since 
thei'e  was  anytlicn  o'  that  kind  in  the  country',  plase  your 
honour.  Quiet  enough  the  fairs  an'  the  wakes  is  now,  sir. 
Their  courage  is  down  these  days." 

They  parted — and  Ilamond,  as  he  passed  over  the  field, 
heard  this  strange,  though  by  no  means  singular  specimen 
of  his  country's  wretched,  improvident,  and  yet  light- 
hearted  peasantry,  endeavouring,  though  with  a  foint  aud 
husky  voice,  to  hum  over  "The  Humours  of  Glin." 

As  he  wa'ked  along  the  more  frequented  part  of  the  soil, 
Hamond  had  op;)ortunitics  of  appreciating  the  full  extent  of 
the  miser)'  whicii  the  misfortunes  of  the  preceding  season 
had  occasioned,  and  which  excited  so  lively  an  interest  at 
the  same  period  among  the  almost  proverbially  benevolent 
and  generous  inliabitants  of  the  sister  island — for  even  au 
Irishman  cannot  Avithhold  this  portion  of  their  praise,  what- 
ever cause  he  may  have  for  angry  feeling  on  other  subjects. 
Numbers  of  poor  wretches,  who  seemed  to  have  been  worn 
down  by  the  endurance  of  disease  and  funine  to  the  very 
s!:eleton,  were  dispersed  through  tho  fields,  some  of  theni 
occupied  in  gathering  nettles,  the  common  fool  of  the 
people  for  a  long  period,  and  prishoc  weed  from  the  hedges, 
for  the  purpose  of  boiling,  in  lieu  of  a  more  nutritious 
vegetable.  The  usual  entreaties,  and  their  accompanying 
benediction  that  "the  Lord  might  save  him  from  the  sick- 
ness o'  the  year,"  v/ere  ra  iltiplied  upon  his  path  as  he  pro* 


THE  HALF  SIR.  215 

ccedcd.  Tii3  red  crosses  -nliicli  were  cinnlicJ  on  nlmo^t 
every  c 'bin-door  as  lie  passed,  and  the  sounds  of  pnin  and 
sorrow  wliich  came  on  Ids  liearinjrfiom  tlie  interior,  afiorued 
liim  a  fearful  evidence  of  the  extent  to  which  the  ravap,es 
of  the  disease  had  been  carried — a  disease  attended  by  a 
peculiar  malignity  in  its  application  to  Ireland ;  for  it  was 
seldom  fatal  in  itself,  but  merely  disabled  the  unhappy 
countryman  (whose  sole  hope  of  existence  depended  on  his 
being  left  the  use  of  his  arms)  for  a  few  Aveeks,  until  the 
season  for  exertion  had  gone  by,  and  then  left  him  to  gasp 
a«ay  his  life  in  the  pangs  ot  the  fiimine  which  was  conse- 
quent on  his  involuntary  remissness.  The  tillage,  except 
where  the  indications  of  unusual  wealth  and  comfort  showed 
that  it  was  tiie  property  of  a  considerable  lioMcr,  bore 
marks  of  haste  and  negligence,  and  altogether  the  general 
appearance  of  the  country  was  affected  iu  no  light  degree 
by  the  misery  of  its  inhabitants. 

Hamond  could  not  avoid  feeling  a  pang  of  deep  remorse 
■when  he  compared  his  own  fancifid  miseries  with  the  real 
and  substantial  wretchedness  which  stared  upon  him  here 
at  every  step  he  walked.  He  felt  his  cheeks  burn  with 
shame  when  he  recollected  how  many  of  these  poor  beings 
might  have  been  made  happy  for  life  with  the  wealth  which 
he  had  wasted  in  endeavouring  to  banish  from  his  memory 
an  adventure  of  comparatively  very  trivial  importance,  and 
he  hunk'd  to  escape  fi'om  the  stings  of  self-reproach,  wliich 
the  real  criminality  of  ids  conduct  occasioned,  by  resolving 
that  every  moment  of  his  future  life  would  be  occrpicd  in 
retrieving  the  occasions  of  duty  which  he  had  hitherto 
omitted.  It  was  decreed,  however,  that  he  should  before 
long  have  deeper  cause  to  regret  the  time  Mhich  he  had 
misspent. 

We  shall  leave  him,  however,  for  the  present,  and  fjllow 
Eenuny  O'Loue,  who  has  ere  now  arrived  at  his  mother's 
col. ago.  Thanks  to  some  remittances  made  by  himself, 
and  to  Ilamoud's  patronage,  it  was  a  more  couiibi  table 


2  it*  THE    HALF    S!K. 

cs(al:lisl'.r.icnt  tl'.an  many  ■wliicli  lie  ];a(l  ciiconiiterorl  en 
his  roiite,  and  lie  smiled  with  tlic  priile  of  gratified  affec- 
tion, as  every  indication  of  rural  comfort  presented  ilstlf 
siK'cessivtly  before  his  eyes. 

"  Why  then,  I  declare,  the  old  'oman  isn't  getten  on 
badly  for  all  ! — The  bomireen*  and  the  little  goslens  !  aa' 

the  clucks,  I  declare  !  an'  the no  'tisn't ! — Iss,  it  is — 

'tis  a  cow,  I  declare  !  Well,  see  that,  why  !  Fie,  for  shame 
the  old  'onian,  why  does  she  lave  the  doore  open  ?  I'll 
purtend  it  isn't  meself  that's  there  at  all,  till  i  have  one 
little  risef  out  of  her." 

^\"ith  this  design  he  adjusted  his  hat  to  an  imposing  cock, 
buttoned  his  Itrown  coat  u])  to  his  chin,  thrust  both  hands 
under  the  skirts  behind,  and  so  strutted  forward  iiito  the 
open  door  with  what  he  intended  for  a  royal  swagger.  On 
the  floor  of  the  kitchen  sat  a  child  about  three  years  of  age, 
playing  with  a  pair  of  jack-stones,  wh.o  did  not  appear  at 
all  pleased  Ijy  the  intrusion.  Perceiving  that  no  one  el.^o 
was  in  sigiit,  Kenmiy  judged  that  the  speediest  means  of 
procuring  attentioa  was  by  awakening  some  alarm  for  the 
infant,  lie  therefore  scjuatted  himself  on  the  floor  anil 
made  a  hideous  grin,  as  if  he  were  about  to  swallow  the 
little  fellow  up  at  one  bit.  The  roar  which  the  latter  set. 
up  at  this  strange  menace  quickly  brought  two  women  from 
an  interior  room  ;  but  Reimny  was  on  his  legs  again,  and 
as  demure  as  (to  useap(jpular  similitude)  a  tiog  at  a  lune- 
ral  before  them  !  The  elder  of  the  females  dropped  a  low 
womau-of-the-house  courtesy  to  Remniy,  who  acknowl- 
edged it  by  a  condescendmg  nod  and  a  snnle  of  patronage. 

"  Y'our  little  lad,  here,  thought  1  was  gocn  to  ait  hiU!, 
I  b'lieve,  my  good  'oman." 

"Strange,  he  is,  sir — 0  Ge,  Jenuny,  darlen,  to  scretch 
at  the  genllemau  !     Will  your  honour  be  seated  V 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  honest  'oman  !"  said  llemmy, 
with  an  affable  wave  of  the  hand,  and  then  laughing  tc 

*  A  liUlo  I'iij  t  llicjuivi.IciiL  lu  ll.t  Loiiuun  lack. 


-J 


r 


THE  HALF  SIR.  217 

himself  as  he  pnssed  to  the  chair  (the  hay  bottom  of  which 
the  good  woman  swept  down  for  him  with  her  check  apron) 
— "  My  honour !     Well,  that's  droll  from  the  pld  n  other  !" 

"  I'll  be  wishen  you  a  good  evenea',  Mfs.  O'Lone," 
said  the  young  woman  who  was  with  her.  "  Come  along, 
Jemmy." 

"  Good  mornen  to  you  then,  an' tell  Miss  O'Brien  I'll  be 
over  wit  her  to-morrow  surely.  I  expect  'em  both  now 
every  other  day,  tell  her."  The  woman  and  child  departed. 
"  I  ask  your  honour's  pardon,"  the  old  lady  continued, 
turning  to  Remmy,  who  was  endeavouring  to  keep  his  risi- 
ble muscles  in  some  order, — "  may  be  you'd  take  somethen, 
sir,  after  the  road  ?" 

"  No  may  be  at  all  about  it.  Try  me  a  little — it's  a 
maxura  o'  mine  never  to  refuse." 

"From  foreign  parts,  I  suppose,  sir,  you  are  ?"  said 
Mrs.  O'Lone,  after  she  had  enabled  Remmy  to  amuse  him- 
self in  the  manner  indicated. 

"  Yes — I'm  an  Englishman  born  and  bred,"  said 
Remmy,  with  admirable  eftVonterj^,  trusting  that  his  mother's 
ignorance  of  dialects  would  not  enable  her  to  detect  the 
very  lame  assumption  of  the  British  accent  which  he  used. 

"  If  it  wasn't  maken  too  free  wit  your  honour,"  said 
Mrs.  O'Lone,  after  hesitating  for  a  considerable  time,  while 
Remmy  busied  himself  with  a  dish  of  wM^es,*  "since 'tia 
from  foreign  parts  you  are,  sir,  may  be  you'd  meet  a  boy 
o'  the  O'Lone's  there.* 

"  There  !     Where,  my  good  woman  ?" 

*'  Abroad,  plase  your  honour." 

"  Many's  the  place  that's  abroad,  honest  wonwn.  If  you 
hadn't  a  better  direction  than  that  goen  looken  for  a  man, 
ye  might  be  both  abroad  together  tor  a  century  and  nevnr 
coom  within  a  hundhret  miles  o'  one  another — ay,  two  hun- 
dhret,  may  be," 

"  Shastonef !  Tvisha !  It's  a  large  place,  sir.'" 
*  Pettitoes  f  An  exclamation  of  aurpns* 

10 


218  THE  H.\LF  SIR. 

^'  But  talken  o'  the  O'Lone's,  I  remember  meeten  one  o' 
{'icm  in  me  travels — Jeremiah  O'Loue,  I   think — " 

"  Iss,  sir — or  Kemmy,  as  we  used  to  call  him,  short — " 

"  Short  or  long,  I  met  such  a  fellow — aud  being  coun- 
trymen— " 

"  Countrymen,  sir !  I  thought  your  honour  said  you  wor 
ail  Englishman." 

"  Ell,  what  ?  an'  so  I  am,  honest  'oman,  what  of  that  ? 
It's  true  I  was  born  in  Ireland,  but  what  hurt  ?  No  raison 
if  a  man  is  born  in  a  stable  that  he  should  be  a  horse." 

"  Sure  enough,  sir.  But  about  Eemmy,  sir,  you  wor 
sayeu  that  you  knew  him." 

"  I  did,  an'  I'il  tell  you  a  secret.  If  I  did,  I  knew  as  big 
a  vagabone  as  there  is  from  this  to  himself." 

"  0  dear  gentleman,  sir,  you  don't  sity  so  ?" 

"  What  should  hinder  me  ?  'ra  sure  'tis  1  that  ought  to 
know  him  well.     He  was  the  worst  iiinemy  I  uvur  had. 

"Maybe  he  had  raison?"  said  Mrs.  0' Lone,  her  tone 
of  respect  gradually  subsiding  into  one  of  greater  familiarity, 
as  her  choler  rose  aud  her  fingers  wandered  in  search  of  tho 
tongs. 

"The  bla'gaard,  what  raison  would  he  have  to  me?  An 
idle,  theiven,  seamen  rogue,  that'll  coom  to  the  gallows  one 
time  or  other." 

"  Your  honour  is  maken  fan  o'  me,  bekays  you  know  that 
'tis  his  mother  that's  there." 

"  Are  you  hijs  mother,  poor  'oman  ?     I'm  sorry  for  you." 

"  May  be  if  1  wanted  your  pity,  you  wouldn't  be  so  ready 
wit  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Remmy,  "  I  heard  a  dale  of  Irish  manners, 
but  if  I'm  to  take  that  for  a  speciment " 

"  You'll  get  the  worth  o'  what  you  bring,  I  see  what 
you  are  now,  you  nnnait'rel  cratur!" — said  his  mother,  ris- 
ing fi-um  her  seat — "  I  asked  you  to  a  sate  by  the  widow's 
fire,  an'  u  share  o'  the  widow's  male,  an'  there's  my  thanks. 


THE  HALF  SIR.  219 

abnsen  and  poll-talken*  o'  the  poor  lad  tliat's  far  away,  and 
that  if  he  were  here,  would  pummel  you  while  uviir  he  was 
able  to  stand  over  you,  you  contrairy  cratur  1" 

"  He  wouldn't,"  said  Eemmy,  coolly. 

"  He  wouldn't !"  replied  Mrs.  O'Loue,  lifting  the  tongg. 

"  Would  you  strike  me  in  your  own  house  ?"  said 
Remmy,  as  the  blow  was  about  to  descend  over  his  eye. 

The  old  woman  seemed  to  hesitate  between  her  desire  of 
vindicating  Remmy's  good  name,  and  the  obligations  of 
hospitality  which  held  her  hand.  At  length,  flinging  the 
utensil  into  the  chimney-corner,  and  throwing  herself,  with 
a  wild  burst  of  grief,  into  the  chair,  "  I'll  lave  you  to  Hea- 
ven !"  said  she — "  If  it  wasn't  for  that  word,  I'd  make  you 
that  you  wouldn't  be  so  free  wit  your  tongue.  'Twasu't  a 
gentleman  ever  done  or  said  what  you  did.  'Tis  Hke  your 
frightenen  the  child  a  while  ago,  you  crule  man  you !" 
And  here,  unable  to  continue  her  invective  any  faiths., 
Mrs.  O'Lone  lifted  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and  indulged  her- 
self in  an  unrestrained  fit  of  sobbing  and  crying. 

"  Ah,  now,  see  what  this  is  1"  said  Rcmmy,  touched  by 
the  too  great  success  of  his  ruse.  "  I  never  saw  you  for 
a  woman,  that  there  can't  be  any  fun  wit  you,  you're  so 
soft.  Come  here,"  relapsing  into  his  natural  tone — "  throw 
your  hands  about  me  and  kiss  me,  you  old  fool,  and  sure 
you  ought  to  know  Remmy  before  now." 

With  a  shriek  of  delight  and  astonishment,  his  mother 
flung  herself  about  his  neck,  and  overwhelmed  him  with 
caresses. 

"  Easy  now — that'll  do,  mother :  take  your  hands  o'  me 
I  tell  you,  an'  sit  down  there  an'  be  quiet,  an'  let  me  finish 
my  dinner.  One  would  think  you  wor  goen  to  make  a 
male  o'  me." 

By  a  great  effort,  Mrs.  O'Lone  commanded  herself,  and 
taking  a  seat  opposite  to  Remmy,  remained  gazing  at  hiln, 
as  if  there  were  anything  at  all  fascinating  in  his  ill-favoaj^3d 
•  Backbiting. 


220  THE  HALF  SIR. 

countjnance,  while  he  gave  her  an  account  of  his  master's 
intentions  with  respect  to  his  future  residence  in  the  coun- 
try, and  his  desire  that  his  nurse,  Minny  O'Lone,  should 
come  to  live  at  Castle  Hamond. 

Minny  seemed  to  be  made  rather  thoughtful  by  this  pro- 
poshion.  S!ie  mused  a  moment,  and  then  taking  her  blue 
rug  cloak  from  an  old  panelled  cliest  behind  her,  and  pin- 
ning a  clean  white  kerchief  over  her  head,  she  bade  Remmy 
to  Avait  half  an  hour  for  her,  while  she  stepped  over  the 
fields  to  Mr.  Falahee's,  to  speak  one  word  with  a  lady  that 
was  lodging  there,  after  which  she  v  ould  be  ready  to  ac- 
company her  son  to  the  Castle. 

"  "Twill  be  a  hard  thing  to  bring  about,"  she  said  with 
herself,  as  she  crossed  the  fields  alone ;  "  and  still,  poor 
dear,  if  it  was  a  Tuik  tliat  was  there,  they  couldn't  but 
do  all  in  their  power  for  her.  Indeed,  to  say  the  truth, 
it's  little  admiration  she  should  be  afeerd  to  go  near  him." 

For  several  weeks  after  his  return  Hamoud  persevered 
in  the  strenuous  practice  of  the  resolution  which  he  had 
fora)ed  on  his  return  to  his  native  land.  The  dawn  of  the 
morn  beheld  liim  in  the  fields,  on  his  way  to  the  bed-side 
of  some  sufiliring  tenant,  where  he  was  accustomed  to  spend 
whole  hours,  when  the  number  of  his  afflicted  dependants 
was  not  so  great  as  to  claim  a  briefer  division  of  his  time. 
Like  all  enthusiasts,  his  fervour,  in  the  new  course  which 
his  smitten  conscience  had  suggested  to  him,  was  pushed 
to  a  degree  of  indiscretion  which  might  have  made  its  en- 
durance questionable,  but  for  its  connexion  with  another 
feeling  which  time  did  not  seem  likely  to  remedy.  The 
more  Hamond  saw  of  the  misery  and  of  the  dispositions  of 
the  impoverished  classes  of  his  countrymen,  the  more  that 
dislike  of  the  weaUhy  and  hig!i-born,  which  had  consti- 
tuted the  disease  of  his  mind  for  many  years,  was  irritated 
and  increased ;  and  (without  seeking  maliciously  to  de- 
tract from  the  merit  of  his  benevolence)  we  might  say, 
that  the  poor  benefitted  nearly  as  much  by  his  resentment 


[.__ 


THE  HALF  SIK. 


22X 


to  their  superiors  as  by  his  compassion  for  themselves, 
Thev,  however,  were  unable  to  estimate  his  motives,  and 
their  blessings  and  their  gratitude  were  unreservedly 
pouied  forth  at  his  feet.  The  family  who  were  fortunate 
enough  to  attract  his  attention  on  the  morning  of  his  arri- 
val in  an  especial  manner  found  occasion  to  i-ejoice  fu  his 
bounty  ;  and,  tainted  as  his  motives  were  by  a  hue  of  self- 
gratification  and  want  of  the  unlimited  charity  which  com- 
prises friends  and  foes  with  indifference,  and  totally  over- 
looks, if  it  does  not  sometimes  contravene,  the  impulses  of 
mere  personal  feeling,  Hamond  soon  discovered  that  even 
the  boundi^d  and  selfish  generosity  which  he  exercised  was 
a  surer  means  of  acquiring  habits  of  contentment  and  quiet 
feeling  than  any  effort  to  distract  his  attention  from  the 
sorrows  of  his  own  soul  by  amusement  addressed  to  the 
senses.  The  peculiar  habits  of  the  people,  nevertheless, 
occasien:illy  gave  him  a  great  deal  of  annoyance.  One 
scene,  which  took  place  during  a  visit  which  he  made  to  a 
sisL«r-in-law  of  Diniat  (who  was  now  become  a  snug  steady 
cottager),  may  furnish  the  reader  with  a  general  idea  of 
what  those  annoyances  were. 

*'  Well,  Dunat,"  said  Ilamond,  as  l;e  entered  the  girl's 
sick  room,  and  perceived  the  patient  considerably  ^vorse 
than  he  had  left  her  on  the  preceding  evening,  "  was  the 
doctor  with  her  to-day  ?" 

"  He  was,  please  your  honour,  an'  indeed  he  didn't  seem 
over  and  above  plased." 

"  Why  so  ?" 

"  Upon  her  head,  sir,  he  wanted  to  put  it — a  blister 
that  is — an'  he  toult  the  women  to  have  the  hair  cut  off, 
for  it  was  the  head-ache  entirely  that  was  killen  her." 

"  And  has  it  been  done  ?" 

"  No,  plase  your  hunour,  the  women  say  'twould  spoil 
her  for  a  corpse  !" 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  To  have  the  curls  tuk  off ;  and  besides,  he  was  very 


222  THE  HALF  SIR. 

angry  in  regard  o'  the  linen.  To  have  it  changed  ho 
wanted,  sir,  but  they  haven't  only  tlie  other  pair  clane,  and 
they  want  to  keep  them  agen  the  wake." 

"  What  wake  ?" 

"  Her  own  wake,  sir,  if  it  pleased  Heaven  she  went." 

"  Inhuman  wretches  !"  Hamond  excLiimed  aloud.  "  Is  it 
possible  that  you  were  calculating  the  circumstances  of  her  fu- 
neral, while  she  v/as  yet  in  the  balance,  and  ready  to  saciifice 
the  cliance  of  her  hfe  to  your  own  abominable  vanity?  Let 
the  directions  of  the  physicians  be  complied  with  this  instant." 

"  0  sure  if  your  honour  likes  it,  'twonldn't  be  wishing 
to  us  for  a  deal  to  refuse  yon,  sir,"  said  Kitty,  "  but  it 
was  the  girl's  own  wish  as  much  as  the  rest.'* 

To  his  unutterable  astonishment,  Hamond  found  that 
this  was  the  fact.  He  remained,  however,  to  see  that  his 
wishes  were  complied  with  in  edict,  and  departed  in  a 
humour  more  meditative  than  usual.  He  regretted,  never- 
theless, the  violence  with  which  he  had  spoken  to  the  poor 
people ;  for  it  was  evident  that  the  feeling  was  general, 
and  his  common  sense  told  him  that  the  means  which  he 
used  would  not  be  the  most  successful  in  removing  it. 

On  the  third  day  after  this,  Hamond  had  a  better  op- 
portunity than  ever  of  estimating  the  misery  of  his  poor 
countrymen  ;  for  he  lay  himself  locked  fast  in  the  leaden 
chains  of  the  heavy  and  wasting  pestilence  which  rioted 
in  the  land. 

CHxVPTER  IX. 

I,  that  loved  lier  all  my  youth, 

Grow  olde,  now  as  you  see  ; 
Love  liketh  not  the  fallhig  fruite, 

Nor  yet  the  withered  tree. 
For  love  is  like  a  carelesse  childe. 

Forgetting  iironiise  pn^t: 
He's  blind,  or  deal',  wheuere  he  l^t : 

Ilis  faith  is  never  fast,  — Peir^^s  Tiellcs. 

TiRD  down  as  he  now  was  to  the  mournful  solitude  of  a 
sick  bed.  Hamond  was  no  longer  able  to  amuse  the  enemies 


THE  HALF  SIR.  223 

of  his  peace  (his  own  memoiy  and  imagination),  by  fixing 
his  attention  on  other  subjects.  His  brain  was  enfeebled 
by  the  influence  of  the  disease,  and  less  calculated  to  resist 
the  illusions  which,  independently  of  any  pre-existing  cause 
in  Hamond's  own  mind,  the  alteration  of  the  system  alone 
would  have  occasioned.  The  hallucinations  to  which  he 
soon  became  subject  invariably  connected  themselves  with 
the  reigning  melancholy  of  his  mind,  and  became  more 
striking  and  vivid  according  as  his  disease  proceeded.  Tho 
manner,  too,  in  which  real  and  imaginary  events  and  ob- 
jects were  blended  in  his  mind  afforded  matter  for  curious 
speculation,  which  the  growing  infirmity  of  his  head  did 
not  hinder  him  from  indulging.  A  few  instances  may  enable 
the  reader  to  comprehend  our  meaning,  if  (fortunately)  his 
experiencemay  not  have  made  him  already  acquainted  with  it. 

He  had,  on  one  occasion,  follen  into  a  broken  and 
heated  slumber,  in  which  he  remained  for  some  hours, 
dreaming  of  Emily,  of  her  husband,  and  of  her  friend  ; 
placing  the  head  of  one  upon  the  shoulders  of  another,  and 
imagining  all  the  fantastical  clianges  which  the  despotism 
of  a  fevered  fimcy  could  suggest.  He  beheld  his  success- 
ful rival  (for  his  success  had  reached  his  ears)  lying  dead, 
as  he  had  been  taken  from  the  field  to  which  some  i)oliti- 
cal  quarrel  had  called  him,  (for  this,  too,  Hamond  h.^d 
heard,  though  as  yet  the  reader  remains  unacquainted  wit'.i 
the  circumstance),  while  Emily  bent  over  him  in  all  the 
agony  of  real  sorrow.  Hamond  contemplated  the  scene  in 
silence  for  a  few  minutes,  until  it  faded  gently  from  before 
him,  and  he  awoke  with  a  burning  thirst.  It  was  nearly 
dark,  and  Minny  O'Lone,  who  was  his  nurse,  had  left  a 
floating  light  upon  a  small  table  near  the  bed-side,  dropping 
the  curtain  so  as  to  shade  his  eyes.  He  could  perceive 
that  some  person  was  seated  at  the  table. 

"  Minny  !"  he  said,  fointly.  The  person  moved,  and 
presently  he  heard  a  bell  ring.  A  few  moments  elapsed 
while  his  thirst  became  almost  torturiu''. 


224  THE  HALF  SIR. 

*'  ^Minnr,  is  tins  the  way  you  treat  me  ?  Have  yon  left 
me  like  alf  the  world  ?  I  am  dy nig  of  tRirst,/  he  murmured 
iu  II  teeble  voice,  while  his  heart  was  filled  with  anger. 

The  curtain  was  slightly  drawn,  and  a  hand  was  pre- 
sented to  his  view,  in  which  was  a  cup  of  whey.  He  drank 
it,  and  the  hand  was  withdrawn.  In  a  few  moments  after, 
Minny  drew  back  the  curtain,  and  took  the  vessel  from  him. 

''  Minny,"  said  he,  as  he  looked  on  her  withered  and 
bony  hand,  "  it  was  not  you  handed  me  that  drink." 

"  Not  me,  darlen  child  !     0,  what  else,  sir?" 

"  Why  did  you  not  speak  or  look  in  upon  me  ?" 

*'  Getten  it  ready,  may  be.  I  was,  sir." 

"You  rung  the  bell,  Minny.  For  whom?  Or  who 
rung  it  ?" 

*'  For  a  token  to  Remmy,  sir,  to  have  the  seed  o'  the  fire 
ready  for  me." 

Hamond  was  silent,  rather  because  the  weakress  of  his 
frame  disqualified  him  for  sustaining  the  inquiry,  than  be- 
cause the  explanation  of  Minny  perfectly  satisfied  him. 

On  the  following  evening,  the  window  of  Lis  chamber 
being  thrown  up  by  the  physician's  desire,  to  admit  the 
freest  possible  circulation  of  air,  Hamond  aw-ke  from  an- 
other fitful  slumber,  to  open  his  eyes  on  a  red  and  cloudy 
sunset.  He  gazed,  as  he  lay  on  his  bac'-,  through  ihc  \\  in- 
dow,  and  full  upon  the  broad  blood-coloured  disk  of  the 
luminary,  as  it  slowly  sunk  below  the  horizon,  while  large 
masses  of  thick  black  clouds  were  gathered,  in  rocky  frag- 
ments, about  and  above,  as  if  ready  to  topple,  and  close, 
and  crush  it.  All  the  objects  in  the  chamber  were  tinged 
with  the  disagreeable  light,  and  Ilaraond's  eyes  were  pained 
at  every  attempt  to  turn  them  away,  at  the  san.e  tmie  tiiafc 
he  could  not  close  them  altogeth  r — for  when  lie  did  so, 
the  balls  felt  as  if  they  were  bur.ing  beneath  the  lids. 
Strange  und  fearful  figures  (such  as  poor  Fuseli  would  have 
suflTered  any  night-mare  to  be  blessed  with  the  sight  of) 
darted  rapidly  upon  his  vision,  and  vanished  as  quick'y. 


THE  HALF  SIR.  225 

At  one  time  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  a  wrinkle  in  the  curtai  i, 
and  felt  as  if  that  were  th'B  cause  of  all  his  suffering.  A 
wind  stin-ed  it,  and  he  fancied  that  an  earthquake  was 
shaking  the  Avhole  world  to  pieces  about  him.  In  thj 
midst  of  the  many  spectres  that  presented  themselves  wit'.i 
nead"ly  all  the  vividness  of  reality  before  him,  one  in  parti- 
cular, which  stared  upon  him  from  a  fissure  in  the  hangings, 
rivetted  his  attention.  It  was  that  of  a  female  face,  palo 
and  wasted — with  dark  hair  and  eyes  moist  with  tears — • 
one  hand  holding  the  handkercliief  Avhich  was  tied  around 
her  neck,  and  the  other  putting  back  the  chintz-hanging 
from  before  the  face.  This  appearance  did  not  change  so 
speedily  as  the  others,  but  vanished  altogether  -nheji  Ha- 
mond  moaned  in  the  excess  of  his  debility.  All  the  exer- 
tions which  he  afterward  made  were  insufficient  to  bring  it 
before  his  eyes. 

On  another  occasion,  when  his  disease  approached  its 
crisis,  the  sound  of  his  own  guitar,  coming,  as  it  seemed  to 
hini,  from  a  remote  part  of  the  building  (an  old  pile  almost 
worn  out  in  the  service  of  the  family  fiom  whom  Ilamond'a 
uncle  had  purchased  the  property)  threw  him  back  in  ima- 
ginaiion  upon  the  days  when  he  Iiad  sat  by  Emily's  harp, 
to  hear  her  sing  those  lines  which  he  was  fond  of  adapting 
to  the  ancient  music  of  his  native  country.  While  he 
continued  to  indulge  these  recollections,  her  voice  at  length 
came  back  upon  his  memory  so  clearly  and  sweetl\',  though 
still  dreamil}-  distant,  that  he  was  enabled  to  trace  one  song 
(a  little  melody  of  the  suautraighe,  or  sleepy  mode,  which 
we  arc  told  was  formerly  used  by  the  natioucd  bards  to  lull 
the  wearied  warriors  to  rest  in  their  chambers,)  through  all 
its  cadences.  The  words  too  sounded  in  his  memory — ho 
could  almost  fancy  upon  his  ear.     They  were  as  folluvv : 

I. 

Sleep,  that  like  the  couched  dove, 

Broods  o'er  the  weary  eye, 
Dreams,  that  with  soft  heavings  move 

The  heart  of  memory — 

10* 


226  THE  HALF  SIR. 

Ijabour's  guerdon,  golden  rest, 
Wr-:ip  thee  in  its  downy  vest ; 
I'a'll  like  comfort  on  thy  brain, 
And  sing  the  hush- song  to  thy  paint 

II. 

Far  from  thee  be  startling  fears, 

And  dreams  the  guilty  dream ; 
No  banshee  scare  thy  drowsy  eara 

With  her  ill-omened  scream  ; 
But  tones  of  fairy  minstrelsy, 
Float  like  the  ghosts  of  sound  o'er  thePj 
Soft  as  the  chapel's  distant  bell, 
And  lull  thee  to  a  sweet  farewell  1 

III, 

•  Ye,  for  whom  the  ash.y  hearth 

The  fearful  housewife  clears— 
Te,  whose  tiny  sounds  of  mirth 
The  'nighted  carman  hears — 
Ye,  whose  pigmy  hammers  make 
The  wonderers  of  the  cottage  wake — 
Noiseless  be  your  airy  flight, 
Silent  as  the  still  midnight. 

IV. 

Silent  go,  and  harmless  come, 

Faires  of  the  stream — 
Ye,  who  love  tlie  winter  gloom, 

Or  the  gay  moon-beam — 
Hither  bring  your  drowsy  store, 
Gather'd  from  the  bright  hismore; 
Shake  o'er  his  temples,  soft  and  deep, 
The  comfort  of  the  poor  man's  sleep. 

Before  the  last  stanza  had  faded  on  his  ear,  Hamoncl 
v/as  fallhig  rajjidly  into  a  shtmber  as  profound  and  sahi- 
tary  as  that  described  by  the  melodist.  The  night  passed 
away  before  he  woke,  and  when  he  did  so,  he  found  that 
the  usual  salutary  change  had  taken  place  iu  his  system. 

"  If  you'd  excuse  me  spaken  to  you,  sir,"  said  Minny  to 
him  a  few  days  after,  when  Hamond  was  able  to  sit  up  in 
the  bed  and  converse  freely,  "  I  have  somethia  to  say  that 
I  wouldn't  witout  your  bidden." 


r" 


THE  HALF  SIR.  227 

*'Say  on,  Minnj,"  said  Hamond,  rather  amusecl  by  the 
tlioiightful  manner  in  which  slie  prepared  herself  fur  tlie 
conversation,  whatever  it  might  be. 

*'  Why  then,  I  will,  sir,  sence  you  desire  me,"  said 
Minny.  Then  seating  herself  by  the  bed-side,  and  turning 
the  tail  of  her  cotton  gown  over  her  shoulders,  she  went 
on.  "  You're  as  dear  to  me,  Mr.  Hamond,  an'  I  think 
worse  of  you  than  I  do  of  my  own  a'most,  for  I  nursed  ye 
both  together,  an'  if  I  did,  sure  I  was  well  rewarded  for 
it.  But  what's  troublen  me,  sir,  ever  sence  you  tuk  ill,  is 
to  spake  to  you  about  goen  to  your  duty,  if  it  be  long 
sence  you  done  it.  You  know.  Master  Hugh,  dear,  how 
relHgious  your  family  wor  ever  an'  always — an'  your  poor 
mother  herself,  heaven  be  merciful  to  her,  was  pious  an' 
good — so  'tis  kind  for  you  to  look  to  yourself  that  way. 
Forgi'  me.  Master  Hugh,  af  I  make  too  free,  but  I  declare 
it's  lor  your  good  I  am,  an'  I  couldn't  rest  in  peace  thinkcn 
of  it,  while  you  wor  so  ill ;  but  now  the  Lord  has  giveu 
you  a  safe  deliverance,  praise  be  to  His  holy  name,  an'  you 
ought  to  turn  to  Him  and  to  thank  Him,  an'  to  think  of 
Him,  and  try  an'  make  your  peace  witli  Him  for  all  you 
ever  doue,  for  I'm  afeerd  entirely,  Master  Hugh,  that  you 
worn't  Avitout  goen  astray  an'  neglecten  Him  in  foreign 
parts.     Forgi'  me.  Master  Hugh,  if  I'm  maken  too  free." 

Hamond,  really  affected  by  the  tenderness  and  earnest- 
ness of  her  manner,  as  well  as  by  the  uncouth  way  in 
which  she  started  a  subject  that  had  long  lain  dormant 
•within  his  own  bosom,  thougli  the  blush  of  self-accusation 
which  rushed  into  iiis  cheeks  showed  that  its  embers  were 
not  extinguished,  assured  her  wiih  much  warmth  that 
he  felt  grateful  for  the  kind  interest  in  his  \\elfare  which 
her  discourse  manifested. 

"  I  declare  it  makes  my  heart  glad,  sir,  to  see  you  so 
willing,  for  there's  always  great  hopes  that  way.  Go  on, 
sir,  an'  with  the  blessing  of  heaven  your  bow  will  be  greeu, 
as  they  say,  before  long." 


228  THE  HALF  SIR. 

"  How  do  you  mean,  Minny?" 

*'  An  old  fable,  sir,  that  they  invented  as  a  good  morl 
about  a  great  penitent  that  was  there  long  ago,  but  you're 
too  wake  now  to  hear  it." 

"  Not  at  all,  IMinny.  I  feel  quite  strong  since  I  took  the 
chicken  broth.     Say  on,  whatever  it  is." 

Minny  accordingly  complied,  and  as  her  little  tale  fur- 
nishes a  good  specimen  of  the  naive  ignorance  and  strength 
of  thought  which  are  frequently  combined  in  those  legends, 
we  are  tempted  to  transcribe  it  for  the  reader's  information, 

"  A  couple,  Master  Hugh,  that  had  a  son  that  used  to 
get  his  living  ioft  enough  by  stalen  an'  doen  everything 
that  was  endfffei  ent* — an'  his  father  an'  mother  could  get 
no  good  of  him,  for  he  bot  'em  reg'lar  when  they  talked 
to  him  about  his  docns.  Well,  he  went  to  the  priest  of 
his  parish  coming  on  Aister,  an'  says  he,  among  other 
things,  '  I  bet  my  father  an'  mother,'  says  he,  '  as  often  as 
I  have  fingers  and  toes,'  says  he.  The  priest  looked  at 
him,  '  Have  mercy  on  you,  you  unfo.  tunate  man,'  says 
the  priest,  '  how  come  you  to  do  that  ?  Go  now — for 
I  can't  take  you,'t  says  he,  '  unt'l  you  get  the  Pope's  api- 
nion,  an'  accorden  to  the  apinion  he'll  give  of  you,  I'll  take 
you  or  not,'  says  the  priest.  AVell  an'  good,  if  he  did,  the 
boy  went  an'  told  hi^  ftither  au'  mother,  an'  to  be  sure  they 
made  a  great  lavaX  about  his  goon  to  the  Pope.  Woll, 
he  got  up  airly  next  mornen  before  his  breakfast,  an'  he  set 
off  to  the  Pope,  an'  a  long  road  he  had  to  ti-avel  before  he 
got  there.  When  he  did,  an'  when  he  set  foot  upon  the 
Pope's  ground,  Qviivy  bit  of  it  beg'n  shaken  onder  him. 
The  Pope  was  sitten  in  his  parlor  the  same  time,  an'  he 
kuuw  be  the  ground  shaken  that  it  was  some  bad  member 

•  Wicked. 

f  Receive  you  into  the  Church.  The  reader  will  find  an  expla- 
nation of  the  practice  alluded  to  by  Miiiny  in  the  Evidence  on  the 
btate  of  Ireland  before  the  late  railiaiujulary  Committee, 

J   Lamentation. 


THE  HALF  Silt.  229 

•was  comen  to  him.  '  Jlun  out,'  says  he  to  his  servant,  *  an 
see  what  poor  cratnr  is  it  that's  comen  to  me,'  says  he.  So 
the  servant  done  his  bidden,  an'  see  the  boy  comen  along 
the  ground  on  his  bare  knees,  an'  he  bronglit  him  before 
the  Pope.  '  Erra,  you  poor  creatur,'  says  the  Pope, '  what's 
the  raison  o'  your  comen  that  way  to  rae  ?'  says  he.  'The 
priest  that  sent  me,  plase  your  reverence,'  says  the  boy, 
'  to  have  your  apinion  o'  me  for  bating  my  fatlier  and 
mother  as  often  as  I  have  fingers  an'  toes.'  '  If  you  done 
so,'  says  the  Pope  to  liim  again,  '  you're  in  a  bad  way,' 
says  he,  '  an'  I  can't  give  any  apinion  of  you,'  sa3-s  lie, 
'  ont'l  you  go  to  the  wood  an'  get  a  withered  tree  an'  go 
an'  stand  Avith  it  in  the  middle  of  such  a  river,'  says  he, 
'  an  stay  there  ont'l  your  bough  is  green  again,'  says  he. 
'  0  murther,'  says  the  boy,  '  an'  sure  Pll  be  dead  before 
half  that  time,'  says  he.  '  I  can't  help  you,'  says  the  Pope, 
'  I  can't  give  any  apinion  of  you  till  you  bring  me  the 
withered  tree  again.'  Well  an'  good,  the  boy  went  to  the 
wood,  an'  if  he  did  he  got  a  withered  tree,  an'  went  aa' 
stud  wit  it  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  waitcn  till  it  would 
get  green  with  him.  Well,  one  night,  in  the  dead  hour  o' 
the  night,  when  he  was  standen  there,  two  highwaymen 
passed  by,  r.n'  they  driven  a  couple  o'  heifers  before  'em. 
So  one  of  'em  see  this  boy  a  one  side  in  the  dark  under  the 
withered  tree.  'Who's  there,'  says  he  ?  There  was  no 
answer.  Well,  '  Who's  there  ?'  says  he  again,  '  or  Fll  put 
the  contents  o'  this  through  you,'  says  he,  liften  his  gun. 
'  Oh,  go  along  wit  you,'  says  the  boy,  '-an  lave  me  alone,' 
says  he,  'to  do  my  penance.'  'What  harm  is  it  you  done?' 
says  the  highwayman.  '  I  bet  my  father  an'  mother  as 
often  as  I  have  fingers  and  toes,'  says  he,  an'  so  he  up  and 
he  told  him  uvurythen  ;  'an'  Pm  waiten  here  now,'  says 
he,  '  ont'l  my  buugh'll  be  green  again,'  says  he.  'Murther 
alive  r  says  the  highwayman,  '  sure  many's  the  time  I  bate 
niy  father,'  says  he,  '  an'  wor^e  than  that,  'says  he  ;  '  an' 
here,'  turnen  to  the  other  highwayman,  'take  thecows  and 


230  THE  HALF  SIR. 

the  gun,'  says  he,  '  for  my  heart  is  changed,  an'  I'll  have 
notlien  to  do  wit  you  or  your  doens  any  more !'  says  he. 
"Well  an'  good,  he  went  to  the  wood,  an'  if  he  did,  he  got 
a  withered  tree,  an'  he  came  an'  stood  by  the  boy.  Well, 
Master  Hugh,  in  less  than  twenty-four  hours  after,  the 
highwayman's  bough  was  gi-een,  bekays  he  repented  of  his 
own  accord,  when  the  grace  of  heaven  came  on  him,  an' 
the  other  boy  was  there  a  twelvemonth  before  his  tree  was 
green,  when  his  penance  was  accepted  au'  he  was  free 
again." 

Although  Hamond  was  not  one  of  those  estimable  char- 
acters who  can  find  "  sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every- 
thing," (we  request  that  this  overworked  apophthegm  may 
never  he  quoted  again,)  he  found  matter  for  deep  reflection 
in  the  quaint  legend  which  Minny  furnished  him  with,  and 
which  evinced  a  deep-seated  and  delicate  sense  of  religious 
worth,  a  quality  of  which  the  poor  peasantry  are  but  little 
suspected.  Happily  for  Hamond,  his  conscience  had  not  as 
mucli  to  reproiich  him  with  in  act  as  in  omission,  and  he 
found  the  less  difficulty  in  following  up  i\rmuy's  suggestion 
in  the  course  of  his  convalescence.  He  found  the  immediate 
benefit  of  the  exertion  in  a  return  of  an  almost  infantine 
quietude  and  serenity  of  soul,  which  if  it  did  not  wholly  and 
in.stantly  uproot  the  poisonous  herbage  which  had  overgrown 
and  overshadowed  his  spirit  for  many  years,  at  least  cut  otf 
the  evil  humours  which  fostered  and  encouraged  it,  and  re- 
lieved him  from  the  responsibility  of  wilful  spleen  against 
his  fellows. 

For  several  months  after,  Hamond  continued,  but  in  a 
calmer  manner  than  before  his  illness,  to  administer  in  every 
way  that  his  fortune  (unencumbered  though  moderate)  en- 
abled liim  to  use  to  the  comfort  of  his  unhappy  neighbours, 
and  had  the  sitisfaction  of  seeing  the  condition  of  all  around 
him  daily  assuming  the  appearance  of  contentment,  and  that 
competence  which  constitutes  the  natural  and  legitiuiatc  ex- 
pectation of  every  member  of  the  humbler  classes,  and  tho 


THE  HALF  SIP.  231 

StroDgtli  of  the  entire  country.  He  was  not  a  little  grieved 
Eovertlieless,  to  find  that  the  common  prejudices  of  the  peo- 
ple, on  the  subject  of  high  birth  and  family,  ran,  in  direct 
opposition  to  his  own  feelings,  and  that  his  services,  gene- 
rous and  open-hearted  as  they  were,  lost  something  of  their 
influence  on  the  minds  of  tliose  on  whom  they  were  con- 
ferred, by  their  recollection  of  his  own  humble  origin,  which 
made  him  appear  almost  as  one  of  themselves — a  feeling 
which  on  occasion  they  did  not  hesitate  to  express.  This, 
however,  was  among  the  least  of  the  many  mortifications 
which  poor  Hamond  had  experienced  in  the  course  of  his 
life,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  to  endure  it  without  much  dif- 
ficulty. Neither  was  his  affliction  extreme  at  finding  the 
usual  ceremonial  which  a  stranger  or  abstntec  looks  for  on 
his  return  from  a  long  absence,  or  his  occupation  of  a  new 
residence,  negkcted  by  the  gentry,  in  his  neighbourhood. 
Nobody  visited  him,  but  that  was  not  the  cause  for  which 
Lis  heart  was  pining. 

He  might,  nevertheless,  have  worn  out  in  peace  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life  (now  faUing  a  little  into  the  "yellow  leaf,") 
if  it  were  not  for  an  unexpected  iticidcnt  which  intruded 
fiercely  upon  his  solitude,  and  brought  back  all  his  miseries 
upon  his  heart  in  greater  force  than  ever. 

He  was  sitting  in  his  apartment  in  the  afternoon  of  a 
cool  November  day,  musing  over  the  turf  fire,  which  the  al- 
ready sharp  frosts  rendered  agreeable,  when  lleuimy  entered 
the  room,  with  a  face  of  unusual  mystery  and  importance, 
to  say  that  a  strange  gentleman  was  below,  who  wished  to 
see  Mr.  Hamond.  "J\Ir.  Hunter  he  says  his  name  is, 
sir,"  Remmy  added,  and  then  speaking  in  a  whisper,  and 
■with  a  face  of  deep  v.isdom — "Tis  the  very  Scutchmnn, 
sir,  that  I  caught  his  horse  when  he  tuk  head  at  the  llock 
O'  Foynes." 

Hamond  remembered  the  name,  as  that  of  the  gentle- 
man to  whom  Emily's  friend  Martha  O'Brien  was  betrothed 
when  he  vv'as  in  Dublin,  although  that  gentleman  being  then 


232  TIIK  HALF  SIR. 

in  Lis  native  country,  Ilamoud  liad  no  opportnnhy  of  know- 
ing him  personally.  The  sudden  appearance  of  a  person, 
even  thus  distantly  connected  with  the  history  of  that  un- 
happy period  of  his  life,  agitated  him  in  no  inconsiderable 
degree.  It  was  some  time  before  he  could  command  him- 
self snfficicutly  to  bid  Remmy  show  him  up  stairs. 

Mr.  Hunter  introduced  himself  in  a  gentlemanly  modest 
way ;  referred  with  a  delicacy,  at  which  even  Hamond's 
critically  sensitive  heart  could  not  take  exception,  to  the 

circumstances  Vidiich  seemed  to  warrant  him  in  seekin^i  Ha- 
ft •  •  - 
mond  s  acquaintance  ;  and  apologised  for  having  so  long  de- 
ferred his  visit,  the  interval  having  been  wholly  occupied  by 
the  efforts  which  he  had  made  to  discover  the  fellow  who 
had  fired  on  him  from  the  rock. 

"  I  have  caught  the  ruffian  at  last,"  said  he,  "  though 
that  very  circumstance  only  renders  my  own  chance  of 
safety  from  similar  attempts  the  more  questionable.  This, 
however,  is  but  a  very  insignificant  episode,  in  the  dark 
and  bloody  history  of  the  fearful  and  silent  system  of  re- 
bellion which  is  fast  spreading  through  the  country.  I  am 
looked  to  with  a  peculiar  dishke,  as  I  happen  to  be  one  of 
those  who  exclaimed  against  the  immortal  pusillanimity  of 
the  Round  Robin,  which  was  signed  by  the  magistrates  of 
this  county,  at  the  beginning  of  the  disturbances." 

"  Indeed,  I  heard  of  that  abroad,"  said  Ilamond,  "  and 
blushed  for  my  native  Limerick," 

*'  'T«  ill  never  be  done  again,"  replied  Mr.  Hunter — "  and 
it  was  then  rather  the  result  of  indolence  than  actual  fear. 
However,  peace  be  with, politics !  let  us  talk  of  something 
else.     You  have  some  iine  paintings  there." 

"  A  few,"  oald  Haniond. 

"  That  is  a  good  copy  of  Poussin,  only  (if  my  memory 
serve  me  light,)  a  liltle  inorc  2^(iperi/  than  tlie  original." 

**  I  have  heard  it  said  (fur  I  am  no  critic  myself,)  that 
that  was  a  general  fault  of  poor  Larry's  colouring.  You 
see  I  am  a  patriot  in  n.y  pictures." 


TUE  HALF  SIR.  233 

"  All  fair,  sir,  all  fair.  I  like  Barry  myself.  But  if  you're 
fond  of  historical  paintings,  I  sliould  recommend  you  to  look 
at  some  of  Allen's.  Ah,  sir,  that  will  be  a  brilliant  fellow 
— you'll  see." 

Hamond,  while  he  could  not  avoid  smilinr;  at  this  piece 
of  nationality  in  his  northern  friend,  promised  to  avail  him- 
self of  his  suggestion,  ou  the  iirst  opportunity. 

"  That  is  a  bonnebouche  over  which  you  have  the  green 
curtain  drawn,"  said  Hunter. 

"  Only  a  porh-ait,"  said  Hamond,  in  a  careless  tone, 
blushing  deep  crimson  at  the  same  time. 

"Now  that  you  talk  of  portraits,  sir,"  said  Hunter,  sud- 
denly recollecting  himself — "you  remind  me  of  a  commission 
which  my  wife  gave  me,  when  she  knew  I  was  coming  to 
see  you.  Tiiere  is  a  cousin  of  hers  lodging  in  your  neigh- 
bourhood, at  Mr.  Falahee's,  a  Miss  O'Brien " 

"  I  have  heard  of  her,"  said  Hamond,  "  but  I  had  no 
suspicion  that  she  was  a  relative  of  Mrs.  Hunter's.  Even 
the  identity  of  the  names  had  escaped  my  recollection.  She 
had  a  fever  lately,  I  believe  ?" 

"  She  had — almost  immediately  after  your  convalescncc. 
It  was  a  most  extraordinary  circumstance  how  she  could 
have  taken  the  contagion,  for  though  she  was  attentive  to 
the  people  about  her,  she  never  went  in  danger  &f  the  dis- 
ease. However,  she  has,  it  seems  got  some  message  for 
you,  which  she  longs  to  deliver  in  person." 

"From from  whom?"  Hamond  asked,  hesita- 
tingly. 

*'  From  a  friend  of  ours,  with  whom  she  spent  a  consi- 
derable time  on  the  continent.  Excuse  me,  my  dear  sii'," 
he  added,  laying  his  hand  on  Hamond's  arm,  as  he  observed 
his  head  droop  suddenly,  and  his  cheek  whiten — "  I  am 
intruding  strangely  on  matters  of  so  deep  an  interest  to 
you,  but  I  am  a  mere  agent — yet  no  colJ  one  either." 

"  Pray,  do  not  use  ceremony  with  me,"  said  Hamond, 
still  treiiibliug  with  an  agitation  which  he  could  not  com- 


234  TEE  HALF  SIR. 

mancl.  "Talk  of  Lady  Emily  and  licr  frieiKl,  as  yon  would 
of  indifferent  persons.  My  heart  is  interested  in  what  you 
said,  rather  from  a  long  and  bad  habit  in  which  I  indulged 
it,  than  from  the  positive  existence  of  any  strong  feeling, 
one  way  or  another." 

"Since  you  permit  me  to  use  the  privilege  of  an  old  ac- 
quaintance already,"  said  Hunter,  "I  will  tell  you  that 
Lady  Emily,  after  the  death  of  her  husband,  of  which  you 
must  have  heard"  (Hamond  bowed) — "expressed  in  a  letter 
which  she  wrote  to  my  wife,  a  strong  wish  to  see  you — in 
order  to  explain  some  mistake,  which  had  at  the  first  occa- 
sioned the  misunderstanding  that  led  to  your  separation. 
That  wish  she  again  expressed,  more  recently,  to  our  friend 
Miss  O'Brien." 

"I  understand  you,"  said  Hamond,  with  firmness,  "but 
my  answer  to  this  is  brief.  When  Lady  Emily  rf-jectcd 
me,  and  married  another,  she  exercised  a  deliberate  judg- 
ment, and  I  did  not  seek  to  obtrude  my  vexed  and  disap- 
pointed feelings  upon  her.  I  forgive  her  sincerely — fully 
— but  I  never  will — never  can,  see  or  speak  to  her." 

"And  yet  you  forgive  her!  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  that 
is  not  the  language  of  forgiveness.  It  is  not  the  forgive- 
ness which  is  required  from  us,  in  return  for  the  pardon 
which  we  all  need  for  our  own  transgressions.  How  would 
you  feel,  if  when  you  solicited  that  pardon  from  the  Being 
Avliom  all  oflend,  more  or  less,  the  answer  returned  from 
the  seat  of  mercy,  were,  '  I  forgive  you — but  I  never  w  ill 
gee  you — leave  my  paradise  for  ever.' " 

"  Your  rebuke  is  just,  Mr.  Hunter — but  admittin;;  that 
it  is  so,  of  what  use  could  it  be  to  renew  an  acquaintance 
that  would  ordy  bring  back  intolerable  recollections  to  both 
parties  ?  Our  hearts  and  our  persons  are  both  changed  now. 
I  suppose  I  should  scarcely  know  Emily,  nor  be  known  by 
her.  For  myself,  I  am  conscious  that  the  world  and  my 
own — ill  temper,  perliaps — have  altered  me  strangely  ;  and 
wiiere  Emily  might  expect  to  find  some  remains  of  the  warm 


THE  HALF  SIB.  23.5 

and  enthusiastic  nature  that  she  once  said  she  loved,  sho 
would  ouly  be  shocked  to  meet  a  dark  and  murose  temper, 
a  furrowed  cheek,  and  broken  spirit  in  her  old  love.  Let 
us  not  meet,  then,  to  give  pain  to  each  other.  We  are  not 
very  fiir,  perhaps,  from  the  close  of  all  our  anxieties ;  let 
us  then  steal  quietly  from  the  world.  Let  us  not  vex  the 
fallen  evening  of  our  days  (since  fate  has  made  us  huriy 
through  our  noon)  with  siorras  which  are  ouly  the  right  of 
youth  and  youthful  passion." 

"  If  you  knew  the  circumstances  under  which  she  ex- 
pressed her  wishes."  said  Hunter  gravely,  "  it  would  not  be 
so  difficult  to  prevail  on  you." 

Hamond  looked  keenly  into  his  eyes.  "  You  are  aware," 
the  other  continued,  "  that  her  health  bad  been  sullering 
for  many  years  ?" 

Ever  ready  to  anticipate  the  most  gloomy  posture  of 
affairs,  Hamond  now  listened  with  a  suspense  approaching 
to  agony.  Hunter  too  seemed  to  pause,  as  if  attected  by 
some  unusual  emotion. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  resumed,  "  part  of  my  conimission  is 
conditional ;  and  as  I  have  the  liberty  of  reserving  it  to 
myself,  in  case  you  should  consent  to  come  and  see  us,  I 
am  anxious  to  prevail  on  you — for  it  is  of  a  nature  that  I 
had  rather  trust  to  other  lips  than — "  Hamund  here  in- 
terrujited  him. 

"  if  all  this,  Mr.  Hunter,"  said  he,  speaking  in  a  hoarse 
low  voice,  and  almost  sinking  with  apprehension — "if  this 
has  been  only  a  preparation  to  let  me  know  that  Emily 

Bury  is that  the  worst  possible  calamity  in  this  world 

has  befallen  me — it  would  be  better,  perhaps,  that  the  con- 
versation should  rest  here." 

"  I  will  only  confine  myself  to  my  commission,"  said  Hun- 
ter.    "  Our  c.jusin  has  a  message  for  you." 

"  I  understand,"  saiil  Hamond,  endeavouring  to  command 
liimifU  while  he  gazed  on  the  other  with  an  absent  and 


233  THE  H.VLF  SIR. 

dreadfully  ghastly  eye.  "  I  thank  you,  ]Mr.  Hunter — you 
have  uiscbarged  your  part  well  and  feelingly." 

"  I  will  not  leave  until  you  promise  to  meet  ]\Iiss  O'Brien 
at  our  place." 

"  I  will,  I  will,  but  not  now — 0,  not  now." 

"  In  the  next  month  then  ?" 

"  Ue  it  so,"  said  llamond,  rushing  out  of  the  room. 

"  Poor  fellow !"  exclaimed  Hunter,  as  he  rode  away,  "  it 
will  be  a  long  lime  to  keep  him  in  pain — but  the  women 
will  allow  nobody  to  meddle  with  matters  of  this  kind  but 
themselves," 


CHAPTER  X. 

If  thou  be'est  dead,  why  dost  thy  shadow  fright  me  ? 
Sure  'tis  because  1  live;  were  I  but  certain 
To  meet  tliee  in  cue  grave,  and  that  our  dust 
Jlight  have  the  privilege  to  mix  in  silence — 
How  quickly  should  my  soul  shake  otl'  this  burthen  ? 

■ — The  yiyht  Walher. 

"\Ye  now  find  ourselves  in  the  position  in  which  our  tale  com- 
menced, when,  as  the  reader  may  remember,  we  left  Mr. 
Charles  Lane  seated  at  Mr.  Falahee's  fireside,  and  expect- 
ing the  entrance  of  their  fair  lodger.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
lady  made  her  appearance,  prepared  for  the  excursion  which 
she  meditated,  and  in  a  very  few  more,  she  and  Mr.  Lane 
were  on  the  road  leading  to  the  house  of  JMr.  Hunter,  where 
she  proposed  spending  the  remainder  of  the  day. 

Whether  it  was  that  the  lady  did  not  feel  pleased  with 
her  company,  or  that  she  had  some  secret  cause  for  anxiety, 
her  young  squire  observed  tliat  she  was  more,  far  more 
tiian  usually  meditative  after  they  left  the  house — so  much 
so.  as  on  two  or  three  occasiins  to  have  paid  no  attention 
to  ohtervatiovis  which  caused  him  no  slight  degree  of  htboui 
lu  coiicociing.     Tbcy  rode  by  Knock  Patrick  (a  hill  which 


THE  HALF  SIR.  237 

is  said  to  rise  by  a  gradual  ascent  from  Dublin),  and  he 
pointed  out  to  her  with  his  switch  the  chair  of  roiiga 
stones,  near  the  ruined  church,  in  which  the  great  patroii, 
Saint  Patrick,  had  rested,  after  his  apostolic  toils,  iuclud* 
ing  all  the  western  district,  in  one  general  benediction — 
he  showed  her  the  well  at  which  the  holy  man  had  nearly 
escaped  poisoning,  and  related  at  full  length  the  legend  ot 
the  Munster  Dido,  the  foundress  of  Slianet  Castle,  a  sin- 
gular and  striking  fortification,  which  occupied  the  whole 
summit  of  a  craggy  hillock  towards  the  south.  But  all 
his  eloquence  was  in  vain.  Miss  O'Brien  said  "  no"  when 
he  expected  her  to  say  "yes,"  laughed  ^hcn  she  ought 
to  have  been  shocked,  and  used  an  exclamation  of  really 
appropiiate  horror  or  compassion,  when  politeness  should 
have  made  her  laugh  at  some  piece  of  barbarous  joke- 
slaughter.  He  was  perfectly  satisfied,  nevertheless,  that 
this  inattention  could  not  be  the  result  of  pride  in  Miss 
O'Brien  ;  for  though  she  was  no  fiivourite  of  his,  he  always 
remarked  an  almost  too  acute  anxiety  in  her  manner  to 
avoid  the  slightest  possibility  of  giving  pain  by  any  as- 
sumption of  superiority.  Indeed,  she  sometimes  carried 
her  condescension  to  an  extent  that  young  Lane  would 
have  thought  a  step  too  low  for  himself,  and  was  very 
cartful  to  observe  and  acknowledge,  with  the  ready  sweet- 
ness which  is  so  peculiar  to  high  rank  and  intellect,  the 
homely  courtesies  of  the  poorest  peasants  that  passed  her 
on  the  road.  Mr.  Lane,  too,  was  quicksighled  enough 
(although  he  was  a  kind  of  blockhead  in  his  own  way)  to 
perceive  that  this  eager  humility  was  an  assumed  or  en- 
grafted portion  of  the  lady's  character,  and  that  her  natu- 
ral temper  was  directly  opposite  to  it. 

They  parted,  at  length,  at  IMr.  Hunter's  door  (the  young 
gentleman  not  half  satisfied  with  the  impression  he  had  been 
able  to  make  of  his  own  cleverness  on  the  lady's  mind), 
and  Miss  O'Brien  entered  the  house  of  her  friend.  Tha 
lady  of  the  house  was  alone  in  her  drawing-room. 


338  THE    HALF    SIR. 

""Welcom-e,  a  thousand,  and  a  hundred  thousnnd  Irish 
welcomes,  my  own  dnrliiig  friend,"  she  exclaimed  affec- 
tionately, as  Miss  O'Brien  entered.  The  latter  endeav- 
oured to  speak,  l)ut  could  only  fling  her  arms  about 
Martha's  neck,  and  weep  loudly  and  l)itterly. 

"  Is  he  come  ?"  she  at  length  asked,  in  deep  agitation. 

"  IS'ot  yet — but  we  expect  him  every  hour.  He 
renewed  his  promise  most  earnestly  yesterday  evening." 

"  Oh  Martha,  I  fear  I  have  miscalculated  my  lirmness. 
I  could  tind  it  in  my  heart  to  turn  back  this  moment,  and 
run  into  some  secret  place,  and  die  at  once,  and  in  silence. 
My  heart  shudders  when  I  think  of  what  I  have  under- 
taken." 

"  Ah,  now,  what  weakness  this  is,  my  dear  friend  ! — 
'Tis  but  an  hour's  exertion,  and  consider  what  jicace  of 
mind  it  will  purchase  you.  For  the  sake  of  my  poor  friend 
llamond  too,  I  would  advise  yon  to  sacrifice  your  own 
feelings  as  much  as  possible.     Do,  now,  love  !" 

"  I  will,  Martha — but  I  fear — I  know  how  he  must 
feel.     However,  I  will  try  to  exert  myself." 

They  remained  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  Martlia  Hun- 
ter (we  take  tiie  liberty  of  retaining  the  familiar  appel- 
lation of  her  youthful  days)  holding  Miss  O'Brien's  hand 
between  both  hers,  an.d  turning  towards  her  a  face  which 
was  filled  with  the  s^veetest  interest  in  the  world — a  face 
in  which  the  sedateness  of  the  mother  and  the  wife  had 
not,  in  the  slightest  degree,  overshadowed  the  beaming 
affection  of  the  srirlish  enthusiast — a  face  as  clear,  open, 
and  sereue  as  a  summer  forenoon,  which  had  never  felt 
any  stormier  changes  than  that  with  which  it  was  now 
gently  clouded — the  grief  of  ready  sympathy  for  a  dear 
Iriend's  woe.  But  Martha  had  passed  tlirough  life  with- 
out a  care  or  disappointment  of  any  serious  khid. — She 
was  born  to  a  moderate  fortune — slie  met  a  young  gen- 
lleman  whom  she  liked  for  a  husband,  and  she  married 
liitu  --shti  longed  for  children,  and  she  had  them — t:vo  fine 


THE    HALF    SIR.  239 

boys — then  she  wished  for  a  girl,  nnd  a  girl  appears — 
every  thing,  in  fact,  had  run  on  so  liniberly  with  her,  thsit 
if  it  were  not  for  some  rogue's  tearing  down  her  garden 
fences  on  one  occasion  for  firing — and  that  the  drawing- 
room  window  was  three  inches  too  high  to  enable  her  to 
see  the  Shaiuiou  from  the  sofa,  she  might  be  said  to  be  a 
happy  woman. 

To  jndge.  however,  from  the  appearance  of  the  lady 
who  sat  next  her,  the  reader,  though  he  has  yet  heard  lit- 
tle of  her  personal  history,  had  not,  hitherto,  been  in  any 
great  danger  of  pining  from  an  access  of  good  fortune, 
like  the  merry  Widow  of  Cornhill.  The  autumn  of  a  once 
brilliant  beauty  yet  lingered  in  her  face  and  form — but  it 
had  that  air  of  sudden  and  untimely  change,  which  shew- 
ed as  if  the  causes  of  its  gentle  decay  had  been  accidentid 
rather  than  natural.  The  contrast  in  the  expression  and 
appearance  of  both  countenances  was  such  as  a  painter, 
fond  of  lingering  on  the  pictures  of  female  lovlin-ess  and 
interest,  might  have  seen  with  a  delighted  eye. 

While  both  remained  thus  silent  and  motionless,  in- 
dulging the  long  caress  in  the  mute  intelligence  of  old 
affection,  they  were  suddenly  startled  by  a  knock  at  the 
hall  door,  INIiss  O'Brien  rose  from  her  seat. 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter,  "  perhaps 
'tis  only  Hunter." 

"Oh,  it  is  he,  Martha — the  very  knock — that  hesita- 
,ting  knock— how  often  has  my  heart  bounded  to  it  ! — 
but  'tis  over- — All  is  over  now  !" 

"  Be  comforted,  I  entreat  you." 

"They  have  opened  the  door,"  Miss  O'Brien  added, 
grasping  Martha's  arm  hard,  and  putting  back  the  curls 
from  her  ear—"  I  hear  him — stop!  hush! — "  she  listened 
and  bent  forward  in  nu  agony  of  attention — "  'Tis — 'tis  he 
— that  voice— though  more  sori'owful  in  its  tone — Oh, 
Martha,  I  can  never  do  it  !  Oh  hide  me,  my  dear  friend, 
cover  me — let  me  fly  any  where  rather  than  meet  him  !" 


240  THE  HALF  SIB. 

•■'My  darling — ah,  my  own  darling,  take  courage,"  Mar- 
tha exclaimed,  flinging  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  her 
trembling  friend,  and  mingling  her  tears  and  caresses. 
"Will  you  give  all  up  now,  after  whole  yeai's  wasted  in 
preparation.  What  will  Hunter  say  to  you,"  she  added 
cheei  fully,  "  after  the  great  fib  you  made  him  tell  ?" 

"  There  again,  Martha — what  if  he  should  revolt  from 
that  crud  deceit !  He  will  do  so — I  am  sure — and  the 
breacli  will  be  made  wider  than  ever." 

"  How  can  you  think  so  hardly  of  him  ?  Have  you  no 
claims,  then?  Am  I  not  your  confidant,  and  do  I  not  know 
your  secret  services,  your  kind  anxieties,  and  your  long 
suffering  last  summer  in  consequence  ?" 

This  last  reflection  seemed  to  inspire  the  trembling  lady 
V  ith  a  greater  portion  of  confidence  than  she  had  hitherto 
felt,  and  she  followed  Martlia  to  her  dressing-room  in  some 
degree  of  composure,  where  her  fair  friend  disencumbered 
her,  with  her  own  hands,  of  her  riding-dress,  and  the  Leg- 
horn hat  with  silk  handkerchief  plainly  tied  over  and  fas- 
tened underneath  the  chin,  which  formed  the  then  popular, 
and,  to  our  taste,  graceful  substitute  for  the  round  hat  com- 
monly used. 

We  will  leave  the  ladies  to  prepare,  as  well  as  they  may, 
{nr  this  meeting  (which  seems  to  be  such  a  tenible  affair, 
whatever  the  reason  of  it  is),  while  we  return  once  more  to 
Castle  Hanioud,  the  proprietor  of  which  was  preparing  with 
no  less  anxiety  for  the  promised  interview  with  the  last 
friend  of  liis  once  loved  Emily — his  first  and  last  affection. 
This  true  lover  had  led  a  wretched  life  from  the  day  of  Mr. 
Hunter's  visit;  and  all  the  exertions  of  his  religimis  and 
philosophical  mind  were  insuthcient  to  suppress  the  rebel- 
lious sorrow  that  laboui-ed  at  his  heart.  The  change  that 
had  taken  place  in  his  [lerson,  as  well  as  in  his  mind,  may, 
however,  be  most  easily  indicated,  by  introducing  the  reader 
into  his  apartment,  as  it  appeared  when  Remmy  O'Lone 


THE  HALF  SIR.  241 

entered  it,  kettle  in  hand,  on  the  morning  of  this  very  day 
a  few  hours  after  the  Wren-boys  had  departed. 

Hamond  was  then  seated  at  his  solitary  breakfast-table, 
in  the  same  dress  which  we  have  seen  him  wear  on  board 
the  hooker — a  blue  frieze  jacket  and  trousers,  with  a  black 
silk  handkerchief  tied  loosely  about  his  neck — his  hand 
clenched  fast,  and  supporting  his  forehead,  as  he  leaned 
upon  the  table.  He  suffered  Renimy  to  make  the  tea,  lay 
the  toast,  and  go  through  all  the  necessary  preparations, 
without  seeming  to  be  once  conscious  of  his  presence. 
When  he  raised  his  head,  at  length,  in  order  to  answer  a 
question  put  by  the  latter,  the  appearance  of  his  countenance 
was  such  as  made  Remmy  start  and  gape  with  horror.  His 
eyes  had  sunk  deep  in  their  sockets,  while  the  lids  were  red, 
and  the  balls  sullen  and  bloodshot — his  lean  and  rather 
furrowed  cheeks  had  assumed  the  pallid  yellowness  of  death 
— his  forehead  and  temples  were  shrivelled,  dry,  and  bony, 
his  hair  sapless  and  staring,  like  that  of  a  man  wasted  by 
disease — his  lips  chipped  and  dragged — and  altogether  an 
air  of  desolation  and  anxiety  about  him,  which  nothing  less 
than  a  luxurious  indulgence  of  long  sorrow  could  have  pro- 
duced. His  voice,  as  he  spoke  to  Remmy,  was  rough, 
harsh,  and  husky,  and  the  sharpness  and  suddenness  of  his 
manner  showed  as  if  his  mind  were  in  some  degree  shaken 
by  the  continuance  of  painful  and  laborious  reflection. 

"  1  will  imlk  there,"  he  said  in  reply  to  Remmy's  ques- 
tion. *'  Leave  me  now,  and  do  not  come  until  I  send  for 
you." 

Remmy  left  the  room. 

"  Yes  !"  said  Hamond,  starting  up  from  the  table  and 
making  the  door  fast.  *'  I  will  meet  this  envoy.  A  dying 
message — or  dying  gift,  perhaps.  No  matter!  Inhuman 
as  she  was,  I  can't  forget  that  I  have  loved  her — and  her 
last  thought  and  her  last  present  will  be  dear  to  me,  for 
they  can  never  change.  Oh,  Emily,  why  did  you  wrong 
yourself  and  me  so  foully  ?  W^hen  all  the  world  left  you 
11 


242  THE  HALF  SIR. 

— when  you  were  lying  on  your  tloath-bed  in  a  foreign 
land,  did  you  remember  old  times  ?  did  you  think  of  Ha- 
mond  and  his  injuries  with  regret  ?  and  if  so,  why  was  I 
not  apprised  of  your  repeutauce  ?  why  was  I  not  kneeling 
at  your  bed-side,  to  comfort  the  spirit  that  I  loved  with 
the  words  of  forgiveness  and  afFtction  ?  But  no  !"  ho 
added,  stamping  his  foot  against  the  floor,  and  setting  his 
teeth  hard  in  a  sterner  mood — "  Lot  me  not  fool  my  nature. 
She  died  the  death  she  earned  for  herself — the  death  of  the 
proud  and  the  high-hearted.  Let  me  rather  rejoice  that  it 
is  so — for  in  her  grave  alone  could  she  become  again  the 
object  of  Hamond's  love.  I  could  not  tell  her,  living,  as 
I  now  tell  her  dead,  that  her  image  is  still  treasured  among 
the  dearest  memories  of  my  heart — that  Emily  Bury,  the 
young,  the  gay,  the  tender,  and  the  gentle,  is  still  the  queen 
of  that  blank  and  desolate  region.  "  My  heart  is  worn, 
Emily,"  he  went  on,  raising  his  outstretched  arms  as  if  in 
invocation  of  some  listening  spirit — "its  atfections  are 
grown  cold — its  passions,  all  but  this  undying  one,  are 
blasted  and  numbed  within  their  dens,  its  earthly  hopes  are 
withered,  and  all  its  sources  of  enjoyment  broken  up — yet 
even  there  you  have  not  ceased  to  govern.  The  interval 
of  many  years  of  gloom  has  not  yet  bani.-^hed  from  its  de- 
serted chambers  the  influence  of  your  sunny  smiles — the 
echo  of  that  voice  that  poured  comfort  on  it  v/Iicn  it  was 
wounded  and  torn  by  the  haughty  insolence  of  the  worth- 
less world  around  you,  still  lingers  on  its  fibres,  and  tem- 
pers the  dreary  voice  of  memory  with  a  tone  of  sweetness 
that  time  and  sorrow  can  never  utterly  destroy." 

After  paciug  his  chamber  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes, 
he  would  again  stop  suddenly,  and  with  a  look  of  absence 
and  wond'jr,  ask  himself  whether  the  events,  that  had 
lately  chr  quered  the  sulenin  monotony  of  his  lonely  lilc  with 
a  shade  of  still  darker  feeling,  were  indeed  all  real.  Dead  ! 
Emily  Bury  dead !  Was  there  actually  an  end  of  all 
hope?     Had  the  world  lost  her  for  ever.''     Should  ha 


THE  HALF  SIR.  243 

never  indeed  see  her  on  enrth  '(gain  ?  She  was  cold — dead 
— coffined — the  earth  was  over  her — the  heavy  grave-stone 
was  pressing  on  her  hght  and  fragile  form.  She  was  gone 
from  him  for  ever  and  over ! 

"  It  is  past  and  done,"  said  he,  "  and  all  that  remains 
to  me  is  to  master  as  I  may  the  disquietude  of  my  own 
heart.  This  high-born  friend  of  hers  would  probe  and 
humble  me — she  would  try  me  with  a  tale  of  deep  interest. 
She  shall  fail.  I  will  hear  her  message,  and  take  her 
death-gift  with  a  stony  eye  and  an  unmoved  demeanour. 
I  will  show  her,  that  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  proud  to 
subdue  the  will  of  all  whom  they  hold  within  their  influence. 
My  heart  may  burst  within  me  while  she  speaks,  but  my 
eye  and  tongue  shall  tell  no  tales.  I  will  be  cold  as  mar- 
ble— cold  as  Emily  was — is — cold  as  my  own  heavy  heart 
— as  the  grave-stone  that  divides  us." 

Having  fortified  his  spirits  in  this  resolution,  he  rose 
from  his  untasted  breakfast,  and  with  few  preparations  of 
the  toilet,  took  his  way  over  the  fields  to  Mr.  Hunter's  re- 
sidence. 

It  was  nearly  dusk  when  he  arrived  there.  Mr.  Hunter 
V  as  not  yet  returned  from  a  neighbouring  court  of  petty 
sessions,  where  he  had  spent  the  day ;  and  a  peeler,  in  un- 
dress, who  opened  the  door  to  Mr.  Hamond,  went  to  inform  the 
lady  of  the  house  of  his  arrival,  while  he  entered  a  neat  par- 
lour on  the  ground  floor,  which  was  made  "  a  double  debt 
to  pay," — a  kind  of  study  and  sitting-room.  Here  he  sat, 
endeavouring  to  put  on  a  hardness,  and  even  roughness  of 
demeanour,  than  which  nothing  could  be  more  foreign  to 
his  character. 

His  agitation,  however,  returned  upon  him  with  a  sud- 
den force  when  he  heard  the  rustling  of  female  dresses  in 
the  hall  outside.  There  was  a  pause  of  several  seconds 
when  they  approached  the  door,  and  Hamond  coidd  hear 
some  whispered  words  of  encouragement,  answered  by  a 
short  sigh.     The  door  at  length  opened,  and  two  ladies 


24:4  THE  HALF  SIH. 

entered.  The  liglit  was  not  strong  enough  to  enable  Ha- 
mond  to  distinguish  the  countenances  of  both  as  perfectly 
as  he  might  have  wished  ;  but  he  had  not  much  difficulty 
in  recognising  tlie  sweet-tempered  companion  of  Emily 
Bury.  Prepared  as  he  was  to  act  the  stoic,  he  could  not 
resist  the  winning  kindness  of  her  manner,  when  she 
walked  towards  him,  and  held  out  her  hand  with  a  smile  of 
real  gladness.  There  are  some  people  in  the  world  whose 
whole  existence  appears  to  be  composed  of  acts,  thoughts, 
and  wishes  of  benevolence,  and  whose  happiness  is  made 
up  of  the  joys  which  they  are  able  to  confer  on  others  re- 
flected back  upon  their  own  hearts.  Their  very  manner 
informs  you  that  your  presence  gives  them  pleasure — that 
your  happiness  is  sincerely  desired  by  them — their  smiles 
are  too  sweet  and  kind  for  mere  acting — and  the  very  tone 
of  their  voice  seems  as  if  it  were  turned  to  please  your  ear. 
In  no  country  in  the  world  do  warm  and  jcent^rous  natures 
of  this  kind  abound  more  than  in  Ireland,  smd  in  no  part  of 
Ireland  could  one  individual  be  found  more  highly  gifted 
with  it  than  Martha  Hunter.  Hamond  felt  his  heart  soften 
within  him  when  she  gave  him  her  hand  and  inquired  with 
an  interest,  which  he  saw  was  not  assumed,  for  his  health 
and  the  circumstances  of  his  present  life. 

*'  But  I  must  not  be  so  selfish,  Mr.  Hamond,"  said  she, 
turning  towards  the  other  lady,  "as  to  gratify  my  own 
anxiety  while  yours  remains  yet  unsatisfied.  Another  time 
you  shall  tell  your  old  friend  Martha,  all  that  has  happened 
to  you  since  our  last  meeting.  Here  is  my  friend,  jMiss 
O'Brien,  who  has  news  for  you  that  you  are  more  eager  to 
hear.  You  have  seen  the  lady  before  now  at  a  distance, 
she  tells  me — "  Then  in  a  low  w'lce  to  her  fair  friend,  as 
she  felt  her  hand  grow  cold  aad  tremble  within  her  grasp — 
"For  shame,  darling,  will  you  not  be  firm  yet?  Consider 
all  that  depends  upon  it." 

Hamond  bowed  to  Miss  O'Brien.  *''  I  have  had  the  plea- 
Burc  of  hearing  Miss  O'Brien's  name  frequently  mentioned 


THE  HALF  SIR.  245 

in  a  way  that  was  most  honourable  to  herself — and  I  believe 
I  can  guess  at  the  occasion  to  which  Mrs.  Hunter  alludes.  My 
servant  was  enthusiastic  in  his  description  of  Miss  O'Brien's 
heroism  on  that  occasion." 

"Oh,  she  is  quite  a  little  warrior,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Hunter, 
"  but  apropos  of  warriors,  I  think  I  hear  one  of  my  young 
rogues  beating  his  drum  a  note  too  loud  in  the  meadow. 
My  absence  too  may  relieve  me  from  some  degree  of  un- 
welcome feeling.  Make  acquaintance  then  as  soon  as  you 
can,  for  I  can  tell  you,  Mr.  Hamond,  this  lady  is  worth 
your  knowing.  Courage,"  she  again  added,  sotto  voce,  to 
Miss  O'Brien,  as  she  passed  her.  "Was  not  that  well  thrown 
out  ?  I  will  take  care  that  nobody  shall  disturb  you,  or  re- 
main within  hearing." 

A  pause  of  some  embarrassment  to  the  lady  and  gentle- 
man took  place  when  Martha  left  the  room.  The  former, 
however,  feeling  the  necessity  for  exertion,  stimulated  by 
the  pressing  nature  of  the  occasion  into  something  like  self- 
command,  and  at  once  throwing  off  all  mere  weakness,  as- 
sumed, in  a  few  moments,  an  easy  and  natural  carriage, 
while  Hamond,  remembering  his  own  resohition,  returned 
ouco  more  to  his  cold  and  darkly  morose  demeanour. 

"^ly  friend,  Mr.  Hunter,  has  made  you  aware,  I  believe, 
of  the  occasion  wliicli  induced  me  to  request  the  favour  of 
this  interview,"  said  Miss  O'Brien,  at  length. 

"He  has,"  said  Hamond,  calmly,  "and  has  relieved  you 
in  some  degree  from  what  must  have  been  a  painful  under- 
taking to  one  of  so  benevolent  a  disposition  as  I  know  Miss 

O'Brien  to  possess.     You  were  the  friend  of  Lady  E 

on  the  Continent  ?" 

"Pray  do  nut  call  her  by  that  name,"  said  Miss  O'Brien. 
"She  had  reason  to  be  weary  of  it  herstlf — and  in  my  ears 
I  am  sure  it  is  an  ungrateful  sound.  Let  us  speak  of  her 
as  Emily  Bury,  for  it  was  only  while  she  bore  that  namo 
that  I  could  ever  esteem  or  love  her." 

"  Yet  you  were  her  friend  long  afterward,  I  understand." 


246  THE  HALF  SIR. 

"Fiienrlslnp  is  l3ut  liglitly  grounded  that  will  grow  cold 
at  sight  of  a  friend's  error,  particularly  if  that  error  should 
be  followed  by  a  punishment  so  severe  as  liers.  You  thought 
her  beautiful  once,  Mr.  Hamond,  but  you  would  have  been 
shocked  to  see  the  startling  havoc  that  nine  years  of  sorrow 
and  of  sickness  had  made  with  her  loveliness,  before  I  left 
France.  This  trinket  was  hers,"  Miss  O'Brien  continueJ, 
handing  him  a  small  miniature  set  in  gold.  "It  is  the  same 
which  you  returned  her  on  the  morning  of  your  departure 
from  Dublin,  though  some  circumstances  prevented  its  reach- 
ing her  hands  for  a  long  time  after.  She  wished  that  you 
would  take  it  once  more,  as  a  token  that  you  forgot  and 
forgave.  Look — that  discolouring  on  the  gold  was  made 
by  her  own  tears.  Does  not  that  touch  him  ?"  she  added 
to  herself,  as  he  took  the  miniature  coldly,  and  without  look- 
ng  on  it  plaCL'd  it  in  his  bosom. 

"  I  have  long  since  taught  myself  to  consider  the  one  as 
my  duty,"  said  Ilamond.  "  For  the  other — but,  pray,  let 
us  pass  to  another  subject.  E  nily  and  I  have  had  but  a 
hard  life  here.  Her  sufferings,  I  hope,  are  ended — and  mine 
shall  not  be  tamely  fostered.  I  have  long  since  discovered 
the  secret  of  my  own  mistaken  hope — and  found  the  cure 
too.  I  have  entrenched  myself  iu  this  hill  solitude,  where 
I  once  more  breathe  the  air  of  content  and  freedom,  I  hang 
my  peace  upon  the  humour  of  no  high-born  coquette.  (Vou 
will  forgive  me  for  having  learned  to  speak  coarsely).  I 
watch  no  beck.  I  court  no  smile.  My  heart  does  not,  as 
it  once  did,  start,  like  a  coward's,  at  every  sudden  footfall. 
I  walk,  or  write,  or  read  the  whole  day  long,  or  else  sit  at 
ease  by  my  turf  fire,  and  think  what  a  happy  man  Adam 
might  have  b^cn,  if  it  were  not  fur  the  rib  he  lost  in  para- 
dise." 

"  Yet,"  said  Miss  O'Brien,  entering  freely  into  the  spirit 
of  Hamond's  tlioughts,  though  she  could  have  dispensed 
with  the  politeness  of  the  last  sneer,  "if  it  be  fear  that  in- 
duces you  to  turn  anchoret,  there  is  but  little  merit  in  thi^ 


THE  HALF  SIR.  247 

Parthian  warfare.  The  world — the  busy  world  has  joys  for 
the  deserving  as  well  as  for  the  ingrate  and  the  proud  one. 
Why  should  we  leave  them  the  undivided  enjoyment  of  those 
pleasures,  when  we  might  meet  and  share  them  in  calm  and 
steady  defiance  ?" 

"  You  should  be  wiser,"  replied  Hamond,  shaking  his 
head.  "  You  will  forgive  my  saying  that  you  are  an  enomy 
■v^ho  must  be  fled — not  fought  with.  In  our  strife  with  ynu 
we  must  keep  our  hearts  out  of  eye-shot.  You  make  our 
ears  the  traitors  to  our  peace — for  there  is  a  seductive  and 
over^^  helming  grace  in  the  very  music  of  your  accents. 
What  ?  Defy  you  ?  Ah,  no — I  thought  that  once,  and  my 
heart  bled  for  it — and  all  that  remains  to  me,  as  you  per- 
ceive, is  to  use  the  privilege  of  a  beaten  gamester — to  revile 
and  tax  you  with  false  play." 

"  I  do  not  know,  Mr.  Hamond,  whether  I  am  to  take 
■what  you  said  as  flattery  or  the  contrary,  but  it  has  a  strange 
mixture  of  both,"  said  Miss  O'Brien,  who  felt  really  a  little 
piqued  by  the  bitter  virulence  of  his  manner.  "  You  say, 
you  were  07ice  mistaken  ?  Would  ycu  think,"  she  continued 
more  playfully,  "  that  a  general  did  his  duty  who  would 
change  his  whole  plan  of  warfare  after  one  defeat?  That 
is  a  brief  experience.  Besides,  is  it  not  possible  that  the 
hermit  in  his  silent  solitude,  might  sustain  as  painful  a  con- 
test with  the  memory  of  the  world  as  those  who  live  in  the 
midst  of  allurements  with  its  real  dangers  ?  Does  he  not 
buy  his  safety  with  an  enduring  sameness  of  regret  that 
makes  those  dangers  look  almost  amiable  in  the  corapaiison? 
Are  there  not  moments  of  intolerable  reflection,  when  con- 
templation puts  on  even  a  stormier  hue  than  action  itself, 
when  the  brain  is  almost  torn  asunder  by  the  violence  of 
its  own  thoughts,  and  the  heart  is  oppressed  almost  to  break- 
ing with  the  memory  of  past  social  happiness,  and  the 
sense  of  present  loneliness.  Must  you  not  sometimes  sit 
down  ;ind  think  on  the  hopes  you  once  cherished — the  vain 
and  f  Jed  visions  that  made  youth  so  sweet — the  stirring 


248  THE  HALF  SIR. 

ambition,  that  even  the  apathy  ofsedusion  cannot  suhdiie? 
Oh,  I,  fur  my  own  part,  should  fear  the  soHtude  that  was 
peopled  by  my  own  memory — the  silence  that  my  own 
gloomy  fancy  filled  with  sounds  long  loved  and  lost  for  ever, 
far  more  than  all  the  mischief  that  the  laughing  world  in  its 
worst  malice  could  inflict  upon  me.  I  am  no  speculator  in 
human  nature,"  she  added,  reigning  in  the  flowing  torrent 
of  enthusiasm  into  which  she  had  been  betrayed,  and  speak- 
ing in  an  humble  voice — "  but  if  I  have  erred,  your  expe- 
rience will  set  me  right." 

"  So  far  from  it,"  said  Hamond,  who  was  much  struck 
with  the  manner  of  his  fair  companion — "you  liave  told 
me  secrets  of  myself,  which  surprise  and  startle  me." 

A  pause  here  occurred — when  Hamond,  who  already 
began  to  feel  strongly  prepossessed  in  flivour  of  the  lady's 
frankness  and  ready  cordiality,  petitioned  for  an  ample  de- 
tail of  the  circumstances  of  Lady  Emily's  life  on  the  Conti- 
nent, which  was  given  with  little  hesitation.  The  conver- 
sation, as  it  had  been  long,  now  grew  perfectly  familiar,  and 
the  lady  and  gentleman  talked  as  if  they  had  been  old  ac- 
quaintances. The  former,  at  length,  ventured  to  become 
inquisitive  in  her  turn. 

"  Pardon  me,*"  said  the  lady,  "if  I  am  intrusive.  But 
you  have  already  given  me  half  a  confidence,  and  it  is  ou 
that  I  would  presume." 

"  You  will  show  me  a  kindness,"  said  Hamond,  "  if  you 
use  no  ceremony.     Pray,  speak  freely." 

"I  know  the  cause  of  your  retirement,"  said  Miss  O'Brien, 
after  once  more  holding  her  peace  for  a  few  minutes.  "Yet, 
if  I  should  judge  by  the  demeanour  of  Emily,  and  by  my 
own  heart,  I  should  say  that  your  state  was  far  happier 
than  hers  who  wronged  you." 

"  Why  should  you  think  it  ?" 

"  I  have  played  her  pnrt — and  met  her  fiate.  Ay,  I  soe," 
said  she,  as  Hamond  almost  involuutaiily  moved  his  chair 
farther  from  her — "  I  see  that  I  have  already  by  this  single 


THE  HALF  SIR.  249 

avowal  forfeited  the  little  interest  which  you  have  taken  in 
my  history.  I  am  hateful  in  my  own  eyes,  and  must  be  so 
to  all  who  know  my  guile,  and  who  cannot  know  my  peni- 
tence." 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  Hamond,  "  I  hope — I — have  no 
reason  to  form  a  judgment.     Played  her  part?" 

"  A  prouder,  viler  part  than  hera  appears  to  you." 

"  It  cannot  be  !"  he  said,  with  a  vehemence  that  made 
her  start.  "  You  have  uot  broken  plight — you  have  not 
given  your  promise  to  one,  and  your  hand  to  another. 
Played  Emily's  part !  You  have  not  deceived,  decoyed, 
duped,  and  blasted  the  heart  that  loved  you — that  lay  for 
years  at  your  feet  in  slavish  fondness.     You  have  not  acted 

thus.     You  are  not  a  fiend,  a  demon — a pardon  me  !" 

he  added,  suddenly  arresting  the  loudness  of  his  passion, 
as  Miss  O'Brien  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,,  and  shrank 
back  in  her  chair.  "  The  violence  of  my  recollections  com- 
pels me  to  throw  aside  the  decorum  that  is  due  from  me. 
I  did  not  remember  that  you  were  her  friend." 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  the  lady,  "  this  is  the  very  least  that  I 
deserve.  1  wish  not  to  preserve  a  mis^jlaced  respect.  My 
conscience  is  so  galled  with  the  burning  weight  of  my 
eriors — crimes  I  should  call  them — that  I  feel  a  dreadful 
luxury  in  avowing  them,  even  though  positive  contempt 
and  detestation  must  be  the  consequence.  Hear  me,  I  en- 
treat you.  Since  vow  have  learned  enough  to  hate  me,  let 
me  tell  yon  all.  For  you  can  serve  me  well.  You  know 
he  person  I  have  injured." 

Hamond  resumed  his  chair  in  an  attitude  half  irresolute, 
half  attentive,  while  the  lady,  retiring  still  farther  into  the 
s'.i.idow  thrown  by  the  window  curtains  on  the  already 
d  rnening  apartment,  spoke  in  a  tone  of  deep  agitation. 

"  I  was  baund,  as  Emily  was,  to  a  young  gentleman 

wliom  you  know,  and  who,  I  believe,  sincerely  loved  me. 

tie  was  handsome,  witty,   accomplished,  elegant  in  mind 

and  mauuer — ^passionate,  and  young — but  lowly  boru— at 

11* 


250  THE  HALF  SIR. 

least  It  seemi-d  so,  compniing  both  our  fortunes.  Indeed^ 
I  may  truly  sav,  that  iove  never  was  deeper  than  his  fof 
me " 

"Pardon  me  once  more,"  said  Haraond,  rising  impatiently, 
"  I  cannot  ahv ays  govern  myself.  This  is  not  a  tale  for 
ears  like  mine,  that  are  wearied  with  the  sounds  of  false- 
hood." 

"  You  will  not  treat  me  so  unfairly,"  said  Miss  O'Brien, 
using  a  gentle  action  to  detain  him  in  the  chair.  "  Hear 
all  that  I  would  say.  I  wish  not  to  escape  your  just  re- 
proaches, if  you  should  find  me  worthy  of  them." 

Hamond,  chafing  under  the  restraint,  returned  to  his 
seat,  while  Miss  O'Brien  continued.  "We  were  betrothed 
— bound  by  a  registered  contract,  and  still  more  by  the  in- 
telligence that  subsisted  between  our  hearts — but  yet,  united 
as  we  were  by  anticipation,  it  wys  my  hourl}  sport  to  play 
upon  his  sensitive  nature — to  awake  his  jealousy — to  see 
him  watch  me  with  an  anxious  glance  through  the  whirl  of 
the  ball  and  rout,  Avhere  I  had  smiles  and  quips  for  all  but 
him — and  pretty  sentences  strung  up  like  pearls  for  every 
ear  but  his — " 

"  Must  I  hear  this  ?"  said  Hamond,  struggling  violently 
with  himself — "  Fit  companions  !  Worthy  friends  !  Pray, 
madam — let  me  beg — " 

"  I  loved  to  see  him,"  jMiss  O'orien  continued,  not  heed- 
ing Hamond's  impatience,  "  when  he  aftv.'r\vards  crept  to 
my  side  with  a  pale  and  fretted  brow — and  a  gentle  and 
reproachfid  eye — I  loved  to  point  out  to  his  notice  the  va- 
rious meuibers  of  the  youthful  aristocracy  that  passed  us 
— 'o  speak  admiringly  of  their  wealth — their  titles  and  high 
birth—" 

"Hold!  torture  and  malness ! — hold!"  Hamond  ex- 
claimed, starting  up  in  a  paroxysm  of  ungovernable  fury, 
and  flinging  the  chair  across  the  room,  while  Miss  O'Brien 
recoiled  in  terror  at  this  unexpected  burst  of  violence. 
"  What !  taunt  him  with  his  lowliness — with  the  station  of 


THE  HALF  SIR.  251 

life  in  rv'liioh  the  niislity  Lord  of  life  and  nature  had  placed 
him  ?  Did  you  tax  tliat  poor  being  with  the  will  ol  Pro- 
vidence ?  Why  do  you  not  chide  the  wren  that  it  canncn 
ontsoar  the  eagle  ?  or  those  dwarfish  shrubs  before  us,  that 
they  do  not  up'.ift  their  boughs  above  that  pine  or  oak  ? 
Shame  on  you !  Shame  and  sorrow  on  you !  In  this 
manner  was  it  that  my  brain  was  stung,  even  to  the  very 
verge  of  madness — I  feel  the  scourges  of  my  heart  renewed 
— but  yon  are  not  yet  too  late — you  have  not  yet  flung 
your  false  vile  person  into  another's  arms — ^yonr  injured  love 
may  yet  be  sought  and  satisfied.  Oh,  fly  then  !  fly  (since 
you  speak  of  penitence)  return  to  that  poor  wretch's  feet 
— you  know  not  the  misery  he  endures — you  know  not  how 
his  heart  is  burning  and  his  soul  darkening  within  him — 
how  restless  are  his  nights,  how  bitter  is  his  food — how 
lonely  are  his  thoughts — how  he  howls  and  groans  in  the 
anguish  of  his  spirit.  You  know  not  what  that  anguish  is. 
1  do.  Fly  to  him  !  Find  him  out  !  If  you  leave  a  cor- 
ner of  the  earth  unsearched,  and  save  him  not,  you  are  a 
murderess!  Seek  him  out — fling  yourself  at  his  feet — ■ 
moisten  the  dust  around  them  with  your  tears — and  if  his 
pride — his  honest,  injured,  manly  pride,  refuse  the  amend, 
and  he  should  justly  spurn  you  in  your  humbleness — go 
then,  and  hide  you  in  your  shame,  where  the  eye  of  man 
may  never  look  upon  you  more,  and  pray  that  the  good  and 
the  virtuous  may  forget  you,  for  a  blessing." 

*'  It  is  a  just  judgment  that  fulls  upon  me,"  said  the  lady, 
faltering,  "  yet  I  would  be  penitent."  Then  with  a  still 
more  hesitating  voice,  "  but  where's  the  hope  from  that  ? 
He  never  would  forgive  me." 

*'  Go,  do  your  part,"  said  Hamond,  as  he  passed  his 
handkerchief  over  his  damp  and  heated  brow — "  your  sin 
will  end,  at  least." 

"Judge "  she  again  fliltered  some  seconds,  "judge 

by  your  own  heart,  sir.     If  she  whom  you  once  loved, 


L, 


252  THE  HALF  SIR. 

Emilr  Bury — pray  forgive  my  boldness — but  if  she  Tvcre 
now  living  to " 

"Peace!"  Ilamond  exclaimed  sternly.  Theit  with  a 
graver  and  gentler  tone,  "She's  in  her  tomb,  young  lady — ■ 
there  let  her  rest.  Her  fate  is  long  since  in  His  hands,  in 
whose  eye  the  titles  and  distinctions  of  human  society  are  no- 
thing more  than  the  holiday  sport  of  chUdien  in  the  thought 
of  serious  manhood.  And  yet,  if  that  great  change  of 
being  can  purify  the  earthly  nature,  and  make  the  soul  once 
more  white  from  its  woildly  follies,  and  if  her  spirit,"  he 
continued,  raising  his  hands  and  his  eyes,  moist  with  tears, 
to  heaven,  "  can  read  the  heart  it  blighted — she  does 
not  see  the  silent  agony  of  that  heart  more  clearly  than  its 
full  forgiveness  and  afiection."  And  here,  as  if  to  compen- 
sate to  his  heart  for  the  piivation  which  he  had  before  tO 
coldly  inflicted  upon  it,  he  drew  the  miniature  from  his 
bosom,  and  gazed  long  and  fondly  upon  it,  while  the  lady 
watched  him  with  an  emotion  which  almost  bordered  on 
tumultuousness. 

"  I  ask  not  of  the  dead,"  she  said,  at  length,  looking  fix- 
edly and  solemnly  upon  him.  "  I  ask  of  that  Emily  whom, 
living,  you  have  loved,  and  who,  living,  wronged  you. 
Suppose  she  lived  yet.  Do  not  start  nor  wave  your  hand 
in  scorn — such  things  have  been.  The  gi-ave  has  yielded 
forth  its  tenants,  coffined  and  shrouded  though  they  wese 
— buried  men  have  sat  again  beside  their  living  friends — 
the  sea  has  given  its  half-devoured  prey  to  life  and  ligl  t 
once  more,  in  a  relenting  mood — mothers  have  taken  ro 
their  bosoms  their  children  long  thought  dead — wives,  hus- 
bands— fathers,  sons.     Might  this  not  be  again  ?" 

Hamond  dropped  the  portrait  from  between  his  hands, 
and  remained  staring  on  the  speaker  in  an  attitude  as  set 
and  stirless,  as  if  her  eye  had  been  Medusa's,  w  hile  she  con- 
tinued : — 

*'  Suppose,  I  say,  Eugene  Ilamond,  that  Emily  Bury 


THE  HALF  SIR.  253 

lived  again,  would  your  hatred  revive  with  her?  Siip« 
pose,"  she  continued,  panting  heavily,  and  wringing  hel 
extended  hands,  "  say  that  she  stood  before  you  now,  here 
where  I  stand,  her  form  thus  drooped  in  shame  and  peni- 
tence, her  hands  uplifted  thus " 

"  Yes,"  Hamond  said  hoarsely,  his  eyes  still  rivetted  on 
hers,  while  he  spoke  in  soliloquy — "  There  is  a  meaning  in 
those  words,  wild  as  they  are.  Is  not  earth,  earth  ?  death, 
death  ?  Docs  not  the  grave-stone  press  heavily  where  it 
has  betn  laid  ?  The  tomb  is  not  so  merciful.  It  is  im- 
possible." 

"  You  have  not  answered  me,"  said  the  lady,  bending 
low  before  him.  "  Suppose  that  she  did  more  than  this — ■ 
that  she  washed  the  earth  before  you  with  her  tears- 
poured  out  the  gushing  penitence  of  her  heart — and  thus  in 
her  iigony  of  sorrow -" 

"lla!  hold!  Stand  back!  Avoid  me!"  Hamond  al- 
most shrieked  in  a  tone  of  hoarse  anger  and  horror.  "  You 
are  not  she — 'tis  false! — Alive?  What!  living?  Near  me  1 
Speaking  with  me !  Once  more,  I  bid  you  in  mercy  tell  me 
who  you  are — give  me  but  a  word — a  sign.  My  heart  is 
bursting — speak !  your  name — " 

''  You  have  guesed  it,  Hamond,  Emily!" 

Uttering  a  burst  of  loud,  delirious  laughter,  Hamond  ex- 
tended his  arms,  but  his  strength  failed  him  in  the  action, 
and  he  staggered,  groaning  heavily,  to  a  chair,  while  Emily, 
mistaking  the  action  for  one  of  repugnance  and  disgust, 
threw  lierself  again  at  his  feet. 

"  Do  not  spurn  me,  Hamond,  nor  look  so  dreadfully  into 
my  eyes.  Yuu  have  already  pronounced  my  pardon.  Do 
not  retract  your  word.  I  have  suffered  deeply,  Hamond — 
I  have  sought  you  in  toil  and  danger — I  have  watched  by 
your  sick  bed  hour  after  hour — do  you  not  know  this  face  ? 
Did  it  not  ever  mingle  with  the  phantoms  of  your  delirium  ? 
Oh,  do  not  reject  me.  I  will,  if  you  desire  that  I  should  dc 
60,  leave  you  this  instant,  and  never  vex  your  sight  again; 


254  THE  HALF  SIR. 

but  let  me  for  once,  from  your  owu  lips,  be  assured  that  I 
am  fi irgiven." 

While  she  spoke,  Hamond  gradually  recovered,  and  mut- 
tered, while  he  gazed  steadily  ou  her — "  Merciful  Provi- 
dence !  It  is,  indeed,  her  form — warm,  living,  and  real ! 
The  eye  is  dimmed  with  tears,  but  it  is  the  same — the  cheek 
is  palor  and  colder,  but  the  same  soft  relief  is  there  still — the 
same  high  forehead,"  he  continued.  "  I  have  been  cheated 
many  years  with  a  dream  of  miseiy,  and  here  comes  my 
early  happiness,  waking  and  bright.  Reject  you ! "  he  added, 
as  tlie  eclio  of  her  words  came  back  upon  his  memory. 
"  Oh,  let  me  Hft  you  from  the  earth,  and  place  you  on  the 
throne  where  you  only  have  reigned  as  a  queen  since  we 
first  met — my  owu  dark  and  desolate  heart.  My  owa 
dear  Emily  !"  he  continued  tenderly,  "  my  resentment 
was  not  so  dear  to  me  as  you  are.  Nay — nay — no 
more  imploring  looks,  you  have  my  heart's  forgiveness 
now." 

"  And  I  will  treasure  it  more  hecdfully  than  your  first 
confidence,  Hamond." 

"  Hush,"  said  Hamond,  "  I  hear  a  footstep." 

Emily  turned  her  head  and  beheld  Martha  Hunter,  hold- 
ing the  half-open  door  in  her  hand,  and  gazing  with  her 
owu  sweet  and  benevolent  smile  on  the  scene  of  reconciha- 
tiou.  When  she  met  Emily's  eye,  she  lee  the  door  close, 
and  in  a  moment  the  two  friends  were  clasped  close  in  each 
other's  arms. 

"  I  owe  all  to  yon,  my  darling  Martha,  to — yoa  and 
your  kind  husband.  But  this  is  only  one  act  in  your  whole 
life  of  goodness  and  charity." 

"  i'oh !  poh!  no  speechjs  now.  Well,  Mr.  Hamond, 
did  I  not  tell  you  this  lady  would  be  worth  knowing.  Come 
now,  and  let  us  make  the  toilette.  Huntir  has  agreed  to 
take  an  Irish  dinner  f  >r  once,  and  is  waiting  for  you  in  hia 
dressing-room.  Take  Emily's  arm,  pray,"  she  added  merrily, 
as  they  were  leaving  the  room — "  I  will  dispense  for  oucii 


THE  HALF  SIR.  255 

wifli  ceremony.  Tliat's  a  good  boy  and  girl — go,  and  never 
qnnrrcl  before  strangers  again." 

Hunter  M'as  only  less  delighted  than  his  wife  at  the  =nC' 
cess  of  their  common  stratagem;  and  tlie  evening  was  worn 
pleasantly  in  nintnal  exjjlanations — that  of  the  letter,  and 
the  fair  hand  that  ministered  to  him  (like  the  prince  in  the 
tale  of  the  "White  Cat)  in  his  midnight  fever,  not  being  for- 
gotten. 

"  I  have  only  one  quarrel  yet  remaining  against  3-ou, 
Emily,"  said  Hamond  ;  "  and  that  is,  that  you  should  havo 
trusted  so  little  to  my  own  sense  of  justice,  as  to  suppose 
that  any  thing  more  than  these  explanations  was  required, 
to  reconcile  me  to  all  that  has  taken  place  since  we  parted. 
But  you  have  duped  me  into  happiness — and  I  should  be 
an  epicure  indeed  in  good  fortune,  if  I  took  exception  at 
the  means.  I  do  so  only  so  far  as  my  own  Emily's  suffer- 
ings are  concerned.  But  I  will  take  care  to  compensate  to 
you  for  those.  I  do  not  know,  notwithstanding  the  many 
years  that  have  been  lost,  to  me  at  least,  why  we  sh  mid 
not  still  live  happily.  ^Ve  have  our  experience  in  return 
for  our  suffering — the  fervour  of  our  youth  is  cooled  and 
subdued — but  there  is  the  less  danger  that  the  flame  of  our 
affection  may  waste  or  change.  We  will  love  as  well  though 
more  calmly  than  in  younger  and  simpler  days,  and  live 
the  ha|)pier  for  our  saddening  recollections — " 

"And  advise  our  neighbours  to  take  warning  by  our 
tale,"  said  Emily,  "and  to  be  convinced  that  they  can  be 
all  that  true  Irish  men  and  women  ought  to  be  ;  that  they 
may  retain  Irish  spirit — Irish  worth — and  Irish  honour, 
in  all  their  force,  without  suffering  their  hearts  to  be  warped 
and  tainted  by  the  vapors  of  Irish  pride." 


Whether  the  anticijiations  of  the  lovers  were  fulfilled-— 
whether  their  old  contract,  so  unhappily  broken,  was  now 
again  respected^or  whether  they  were  content  to  wear  out 
the  remainder  of  their  days  in  the  quiet  enjoyment  of  a 


256 


THE  HALF  SIR. 


steady  esteem  antl  friendship,  are  questions  in  which,  pro* 
bably,  the  reader  may  now  have  ceased  to  take  an  interest ; 
I  will  intrude  yet  so  for  upnn  his  time,  nevertheless,  to  tell 
him  that  Castle  Ilamondsooa  became  (what  all  Irish  houses 
are,  with  few  exceptions)  the  abode  of  hospitality,  and 
(what  all  Irish  houses,  alas  !  are  not)  the  seat  of  hap})iness 
and  comfort.  The  traces  of  a  female  hand  and  taste  soon 
became  evident  in  the  improved  appearance  of  the  little  de- 
mesne ;  the  hay-band  no  longer  aspired  to  the  office  of  a 
gate-lock — the  avenue  was  cleared  and  weeded — the  bundle 
of  newspapers  was  no  longer  permitted  to  act  as  deputy 
for  a  window-pane — and  the  economy  of  the  establishment 
was  no  longer  so  confined,  as  to  involve  liemmy  in  such 
degrading  implications  as  that  thrown  out  by  the  wren-boy 
at  the  commencement  of  our  tale. 

"My  master  is  delighted  at  the  thoughts  of  Miss  Emily 
comen  to  life  agcn,"  said  llemmy  O'Lone  to  his  mother,  as 
he  sat  dangling  his  leg  over  the  corner  of  the  kitchen  table 
one  evening.  "May  be  'twould  be  another  story  with  him 
after  they're  married  a  piece." 

It  was  not  "  another  story"  with  them,  however.  Ha- 
moud  and  Emily  persevered  in  the  benevolent  course  of 
life  which  both  had  adopted  for  some  time  before  ;  and  the 
condition  of  their  tenantry,  and  of  all  the  cottagers  who 
came  within  the  sphere  of  their  good  offices,  aftbrded  a 
pleasing  proof  of  the  benefits  that  might  be  conferred  on 
even  the  most  destitute  portion  of  Munstcr  cottagers  by  a 
single  well-disposed  resident  proprietor. 

Lady  Emily  Jlamond  was  seated  in  a  rustic  chair,  on  a 
fine  summer  evening,  near  the  gravel-plot  before  the  hall- 
door,  while  Mr.  Hamond  was  walking  dov>n  the  lawn  with 
Mr.  Charles  Lane  and  his  young  wife,  who  were  now  sober, 
sellled  bodies  in  their  neighbourhood.  Looking  on  one 
side  she  saw  llommy  O'Lone  sidling  towards  her  in  a  half 
bashful  way — now  pausing,  .aid  looking  sheepishly  at  his 
toes — now  pushing  his  hat   up  behind,  and   using  more 


THE  HALF  SIR.  257 

comical  actions  than  I  have  time  or  space  to  describe 
When  he  had  at  length  approached  within  about  a  yard  oi 
his  lady's  side  lie  made  a  grin,  and  with  a  half-laughing 
aflectation  of  freedom : 

"  Why  then,  please  your  ladyship,"  said  he,  "  if  it 
wasn't  making  too  free,  ma'am,  there  was  a  little  girl  that 
I  had  a  sort  of  a  rattleu  regard  for — ^^^dly,  you  know, 
ma'am  ;  'tisu't  living  with  you  or  anybody  belongen  to 
your  ladyship  still  she'd  be,  ma'am,  I  wonder?" 

"  Oh !  Nelly  ?  she  was  married  very  soon  after  your 
master  left  Dublin,  to  a  sergeant,  Ilemmy." 

"  Gondoutha  !  Wisha  an'  I  never  seen  the  peer  of  her. 
That's  the  way  of  it,  Nelly  ?  Wint  off  wit  a  sodger !  "N^ery 
well,  why " 

"  Indeed  she  Avas  a  foolish  girl,  Eemmy,"  said  Lady 
Emily. 

"  Oh  then — not  contradicten  your  ladyship — not  an 
ounce  of  foolish  flesh  was  there  upon  her  carciss.  Ayeh, 
fuol  indeed  !  If  you  bought  Nelly  to  sell  for  a  fool  }  ou'd 
lie  a  long  while  out  o'  your  money.  'Tis  like  all  their  doeus 
— the  thieves." 

"  Whose  doings,  Remmy  ?" 

"  The  women,  ma'am,  with  submission  to  you.  Women 
an'  pigs  bate  the  world." 

"  Oh  !  fie,  liemmy.  How  can  you  be  so  ungallant,  so 
im-Irish  as  to  say  that  in  my  presence,"  said  Lady  Emily, 
smiling. 

"  Irish  or  no  Irish,  ma'am,  I  speak  the  plain  truth,  an' 
sure  'tis  well  I  knows  em,"  said  Kemmy,  stoutly.     "  liarr- 
ing  what's  of  'em  that's  ladies,  an'  under  proper  govern 
mint,  there  isn't  such  i-o^ues  goen." 

"  Oil,  fie,  Eemmy,  I  am  quite  ashamed  of  you." 

"  Sure  I  say  only  what  isn't  ladies,  please  your  ladyship. 
I'd  go  down  on  my  two  knees  to  yourladysliip  if  I  thought 
there  was  any  offence  in  me  words  ;  but  as  for  the  women 
o'  the  lower  order,"  said  Kjmniy,  with  an  aristocratic  curl 


258  THE  HALF  Slfi. 

of  tlie  upper  lip,  "  it  stands   to  raisoii  what  I  say,  an'  1 
stand  by  it." 

"  01),  shame  !  Rcmmy  !  you  a  Munsterman  !  You 
shoukl  tidk  of  them  as  angels  sent  down  to  guard  and 
cheer  you." 

"  Angels,  ershishin  ?"*  said  Roramy,  with  a  toss  of  the 
head.  "  Ay,  angels  like  them  that  they  put  upon  hearses 
— all  head  and  wings — with  gingerbread  gilding — an' 
death  under — an'  sorrow  after  'em.  That's  all  the  angels 
I  can  see  in  'em  !" 


The  plot  of  the  foregoing  tale  is  identical  with  that  of  a 
drama,  in  two  acts,  sent  by  the  writer  to  Mr.  Arnold,  lute 
of  the  English  Oitera  House.  Subsequent  occurrences  in- 
duced the  author  to  reUuquish  the  desire  of  seeking  an  in- 
ti'oduction  to  the  public  through  the  medium  of  the  stage, 
notwithstanding  the  kind  and  pressing  instances  of  the 
gentleman  just  named.  The  incidents  of  the  tale  are,  so 
far  as  the  writer  is  aware,  entirely  imaginary,  but  the  mau- 
uer  in  which  they  are  treated  still  bears  a  strong  impres- 
sion of  the  moukl  in  which  they  were  originally  cast,  and 
it  is  probable  that  what  might  have  aid.-d  tlieir  etVcct  ni 
scenic  representation  has  a  directly  opposite  eflect  in  a  per* 
formance  intended  solely  for  the  calm  and  quiet  cousideiu- 
tiou  of  tlie  parlour  lire-side. 

*  Duei  she  say  ? 


END  OF  THE  HALF  SIR, 


gONNETS— IKTRODUCTOKY. 


I  hold  not  out  my  hand  in  grateful  love 

Because  ye  were  my  friend,  where  friends  were  few| 
Kor  in  the  pride  of  conscious  truth,  to  prove 

The  heart  ye  wronged  and  doubted,  yet  was  true- 
It  is  that  while  the  close  and  blinding  veil 

That  j'outh  and  blissful  ignorance  liad  cast 

Around  my  inward  siglit,  is  clearing  fast 
Before  its  strengthening  vision — while  tlie  scale 

Falls  from  mine  eyeballs — and  the  gloomy  stream 

Of  human  motive,  whitening  in  my  view 
Shows  clear  as  dew  sliow;ers  in  the  gray  morn  beam — 
While  hearts  and  acts,  whose  impulse  seemed  divine, 

Put  on  the  grossness  of  an  eartldier  liue — 
I  still  can  gaze,  and  deeply  still  can  honour  thine. 


Judge  not  yonr  friend  by  what  he  seemed,  when  Fate 

Had  crossed  him  in  his  chosen — cherished  aim — 
When  spirit-broken — baffled  -  moved  to  hate 

The  very  kindness  that  but  made  his  sliame 
More  self-induced— he  rudely  turned  aside 

In  bitter  hopeless  agony  from  all 

Alike — of  those  who  mocked  or  mounied  his  fall, 
And  fenced  his  injured  heart  in  lonelj^  pride, 
Wayward  and  sullen  as  Suspicion's  soul; 

To  his  o^vn  mind  he  lived  a  mystery 

But  now  the  heavens  have  changed — the  vapours  roll 
Far  from  his  heart,  and  in  his  solitude, 

Wliile  the  fell  niglit-mares  of  his  spirit  flee, 
He  wakes  to  weave  lor  tliee  a  tale  of  joy  renewed. 


2G0 


SUIL  DHUV,  THE  COINER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Truly  to  speak,  sir,  and  with  no  addition, 

AVe  go  to  gain  a  little  patch  of  ground. — ITamht, 

It  is  a  very  usual  remark  among  those  wlio  pretend  to  be 
acquainted  with  the  conditions  of  Irish  society,  that  it  is  a 
I  "111  more  favourable  to  the  stranger  than  to  the  native — 
that  the  foreign  a^lventurer  finds  the  various  avenues  to 
good  fortune  which  it  presents  less  encumbered  and  blocked 
up  witli  difiiculties  and  disappointments,  than  the  indigenous 
children  of  the  soil ;  and  this  observation  appears  to  be 
equally  confirmed  by  experience,  whether  it  is  applied  to 
the  humble  artizan  who  confines  his  hopes  and  prospects  to 
the  acquisition  of  the  ordinary  comforts  of  domestic  life,'  or 
to  the  armed  aggressor  who  comes  to  conquer  and  lay 
•waste  for  conquest's  sake  alone.  To  endeavour,  even  by 
conjecture,  to  account  satisfactorily  for  this — one  of  the 
very  slightest  among  the  anomalies  of  the  country's  polity — 
would  lead  to  a  disquisition  on  national  dispositions  and 
habits,  and  an  inquiry  into  historical  influences,  into  which 
we  arc  not  at  present  disposed  to  enter.  The  most  obvious 
and  usual  cause  assigned,  however,  is  the  superior  industry 
and  perseverance  of  the  naturalized  inhabitant. 

One  class  of  persons  in  particular  have  verified  the  obser- 
vation to  its  utmost  extent.  We  allude  to  the  descendants 
of  those  emigrants  from  the  Palatinate  of  Germany,  who 
i^ere  invited  over  into  these  countries  by  the  liberal  polic/ 


262  SUIL  DHUV, 

of  the  Whig  ministry  of  1708,  a  measure  which  afterward 
gave  such  displeasure  in  Enghuid,  and  drew  down  so  weiglitj 
a  censure  from  the  succeeding  cabinet  of  1710.  History 
informs  n.i,  that  at  this  period  the  indigence  and  misery 
which  prevailed  among  the  disappointed  aliens  was  such, 
as  to  occasion  a  not  ill-founded  apprehension  of  a  conta- 
gious distemper — no  less  than  ninety  of  them  being  accus- 
tomed to  take  up  their  abode  beneath  a  single  roof,  in  some 
of  the  lowest  neighbourhoods  of  the  British  metropolis.* 

In  the  sister  isle,  nevertheless,  the  exertions  of  the  same 
race  have  been  attended  with  incomparably  better  success. 
Unmingled  and  uninterested  as  the  adventurers  necessarily 
were  with  the  politics  and  the  factious  prejudices  of  the 
people,  and  having  no  internal  or  external  cause  to  divest 
them  from  the  even  course  of  steady  and  persevering 
industry,  which  their  habits  and  inclinations  suggested  to 
them  as  the  most  likely  to  attain  success,  they  were  in  every 
way  prepared  to  take  advantage  of  the  encouragements  held 
out  to  them  by  the  lauded  proprietor.  These  Mere,  as 
they  still  continue  to  be,  very  considerable — and  this  cir- 
cumstance, together  with  the  difference  of  religion,  of  dis- 
position, and  of  civil  habits,  laid  the  foundation  of  a  deep 
and  rooted  hatred  and  jealousy,  which  the  moral  and  political 
changes  that  have,  since  the  first  introduction  of  the  aliens, 
taken  place  in  the  relations  of  the  country,  have  contributed 
rather  to  increase  and  confirm  than  to  alleviate.  The  Pala- 
tines, or  Falentins  as  they  are  more  usually  termed  among 

*  The  class  of  sufferers  has  been  changed — but  such  misery  as 
the  above  fact  furnishes  an  example  of,  may  yet  be  found  in  Ire- 
land. In  the  last  census  for  that  countiy,  no  less  than  ninety-live 
individuals  were  returned  from  one  house  in  tiie  St.  Giles's  of  a 
principal  city  in  the  west  of  the  kingdom,  and  this  Cliiuese  mode 
of  existence  seems  to  be  by  no  means  confined  to  partial  instances. 
'•How  many  beds  have  ye?"  asked  the  author  once  of  a  poor  men- 
dicant cabin-holdet.  "  Why  thin,  not  one  but  the  one,  sir,"  waa 
tlie  rL'ply.  -'And  how  many  sleep  iu  it  together  <"'  "Uh!  thir, 
only  the  nine  of  us  that's  in  family,  your  hon-ur." 


THE  COINEB.  263 

their  rustic  neighbours,  still  continue  to  be  favourites  with 
the  lords  of  the  soil.  The  facility  with  which  they  obtained 
long  leases,  at  a  time  when  the  great  proportion  of  the 
peasantry  of  the  country  were  mere  cottiers  to  fariners. 
enabled  them  to  turn  their  knowledge  of  husbandry  to  great 
account;  and  although  their  hopper-plough  (which  answered 
the  double  purpose  of  ploughing  and  sowing)  has,  I  believe, 
generally  gone  out  of  use,  their  custom  of  producing  crops 
in  drills  is  still  almost  universally  adopted.  They  are  im- 
proving and  industrious  tenants — punctual,  whether  for  the 
preservation  of  their  independence,  or  the  satisfaction  of 
their  consciences,  in  all  their  engagements — attentive,  even 
to  a  degree  of  puritanical  exactness,  to  their  religious  obli- 
gations— presenting,  in  the  unremitting  exertion  which  they 
employ  in  the  acquisition  of  money,  and  the  caution  which 
they  manifest  in  its  distribution,  a  striking  contrast  to  the 
people  among  whom  they  have  become  naturalized — (a  con- 
trast which,  perhaps,  as  much  as  any  other  circumstance, 
tends  to  foster  the  contempt  with  which  they  are  regarded 
by  the  latter) — precise  in  all  that  regards  their  domestic  eco- 
nomy— addicted  to  neatness  and  to  the  appearance  as  well 
as  the  feeling  of  comfort  in  their  houses,  and  imbued  in 
heart  and  soul  with  a  tincture  of  religious  bigotry  and  na- 
tional prejudice  which  enables  them  to  return,  with  ample 
interest,  tlie  evil  feelings  and  wishes  of  the  low  Cathohc 
population  of  the  country. 

Assuming  the  above  to  be  the  general  characteristics  of 
the  class  we  are  describing,  it  may  perhaps  be  added  that 
there  are  many  individual  exceptions  ;  but  even  where  mem- 
bers of  the  caste  are  found  to  derogate  from  its  usually  i-e- 
spectable  character,  it  is  seldom,  perhaps  never,  observed 
that  they  fall  into  what  are  looked  upon  as  the  peculiar  or 
ruling  vices  of  the  more  ancient  inhabitants,  and  there  re- 
mains as  wide  a  distinction  between  the  bad  Palatine  and 
the  bad  Irishman,  as  may  be  traced  between  the  estimable 
and  amiable  ot  b»th  classes.     Like  the  scattered  suns  ol 


264  suir  riiuv, 

Israel,  tlie  former  are  careful  to  prevent  any  amiilgamation 
of  interests  or  aflections  with  tlieir  neighbours,  and  the 
circumstance  of  an  intermarriage  is,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
an  exceedingly  rare  occurrence.  People  may  be  found  to 
adduce  this  fact  as  one  cause  of  the  continued  prosperity 
and  happiness  of  the  provident  aliens — but  a  more  satis- 
factory one  may  be  found  in  the  superior  inducements  held 
out  to,  and  consequent  success  attending,  their  exertions. 
The  Palatines,  in  short,  are  amongst  those  who  "  feed  fat" 
npon  tbe  birth-right  of  their  elder  brethren,  -who  are,  by 
the  peculiar  policy  of  their  governors,  debarred  the  custo- 
mary means  of  existence,  and  punished  for  endeavouring 
to  devise  new  expedients  for  themselves. 

Time,  the  great  alembic  by  which  all  incongruities  are 
reconciled  and  all  distinctions  amalgamated,  has  not  yet 
exercised  its  customtiry  influence  on  the  hereditary  habits 
and  external  peculiarities  of  the  people  we  are  describing. 
Tliey  still  retain,  even  in  their  manners  and  language,  as 
well  as  in  tlieir  character  and  disposition,  indications  which 
it  Avould  be  impossible  to  misconceive,  of  their  German  ori- 
gin They  are,  for  the  most  pai't,  scattered  thinly  over  the 
southern  and  Mcstern  districts  of  the  island — but  instances 
are  not  wanted  in  which  they  form  the  almost  exclusive 
population  of  hamlets  and  small  villages — and  where  this 
happens  to  be  the  case,  the  traces  of  their  extraction  are 
evident  and  decided  to  a  very  remarkable  degree. 

At  the  time  when  the  events  which  we  have  selected  as 
the  material  for  the  following  tale  took  place — in  the  eight- 
eenth century — the  points  of  distinction  were,  as  may  be 
supposed,  a  great  deal  more  stiiking;  and  the  comparative 
novelty  of  their  introduction  into  the  country,  rendered 
them  more  liable  than  at  present  to  the  resentment  of  the 
indignant  peasantry  of  the  island,  although  the  dislike  of 
the  latter  was  uot  more  deeply  rooted  than  at  present. 
There  was,  however,  a  distinction.  It  was  then  the  hatred 
of  injured  and  excited  foeliiigs  which  was  cherished  against 


THE  COINER.  265 

the  tisiiq^ers ;  it  is  now  tlie  hatred  of  prejudice,  and  of  an 
ahiiost  excusable — at  least,  a  very  accountable  envy. 

We  have,  ourselves,  found  a  little  generalising  explana- 
tion so  useful  and  agreeable  as  a  preparation  for  the  intro- 
duction of  characters  and  events  in  a  work  of  this  kind, 
that  we  are  induced  to  calculate  with  confidence  on  the  in- 
dulgence of  our  readers  in  devoting  this  short  chapter  to 
the  same  purpose. 


CHAPTER  II. 

John  Nobody,  quoth  I,  what  ne^vs  ?  thou  soon  note  and  teD, 

"What  manner  man  then  mean  that  are  so  mad — 

He  said  tliese  gay  gallants  that  will  construe  the  gospel, 

As  Solomon  the  sage  wuth  semblance  full  sad: 

To  discusse  divinity  they  nought  adread — 

Move  meet  were  it  fur  them  to  milk  kye  at  a  fleyke. 

Thou  liest,  quoth  I,  thou  losel,  like  a  leud  lad, 

He  said  he  was  little  John  Kobody,  that  durst  not  speake. 

— Little  John  Nohody. 

A  NUMBER  of  peasants  were  occupied  in  trenching*  a  field 
of  potatoes,  in  a  fine  soft  summer  evening,  in  the  earlier 
portion  of  the  last  century,  on  the  borders  of  one  of  the 
south-western  counties  of  Ireland.  Their  work  proceeded 
merrily — all  being  engaged,  as  is  customary  in  Ireland,  in 
relieving  the  tediousness  of  their  monotonous  labour  by 
wild  tales,  and  light  and  jocular  conversation,  which  we 
shall  take  up  at  random. 

"  An'  so  you  tell  me  Segur  is  off,  Mick  ?"  said  one  to  a 
young  peasant  who  worked  beside  him. 

"  He  never  'II  see  daylight  again,"  was  the  reply. 

"  An'  how  coom  that  ?" 

*  Forming  trenches  by  throwing  up  from  between  the  ridges  the 
loose  earth,  so  as  to  form  a  fresh  coat  around  the  stalks  of  the 
vegetable  as  they  begin  to  appear. 

12 


266  SUIL  DHUV, 

"  Simple  enough — be  killen  of  'm.'* 

*'  Wlio  kilt  him  ?" 

"  Oh  then  that's  more  than  I'll  tell  you  this  time — ont 
o'  the  gang  aistwards  they  siy." 

"  An'  why  did  they  kill  him  ?" 

"  Sanow  one  o'  me  knows — bekays  he  was  alive,  may 
be." 

"  It's  little  hurt  it  was  done,  an'  little  matter  who  done 
it,"  said  a  dark-looking  man  on  another  ridge  ;  and  biting 
his  lip  hard,  while  he  struck  his  spade  with  great  violence 
against  a  large  sod,  he  added — "  an'  the  same  loock  to  the 
rest  of  his  race,  an'  that  before  long — the  left-handed 
thieves — them  Palentins  !" 

"  You  might  as  well.be  cursing,  Davy." 

"  D'ye  hear  the  minister  ?" 

*'  Oh,  it  isn't  from  the  heart  that  coom,  any  way  ;  and 
them  curses  doesn't  be  heard  that  falls  from  a  body's  lip 
when  they  do  be  in  a  passion,  and  don't  main  what  they 
say." 

"  It's  done  a  fi'penny  bit  with  you,  now,  we  have  a 
fable  from  Jerry  on  the  head  of  it,"  was  uttered  half  aside, 
a  few  paces  from  the  last  speaker — a  fair-faced  youth,  who 
almost  immediately  verified  the  anticipation. 

"  I'll  tell  ye  a  story,  then,  about  that  very  thing,  if  ye 
like  to  hear  it,"  said  tlie  young  fellow. 

After  a  few  jibes  on  the  propensity  of  the  story-telling 
genius,  Iiis  companions  proceeded  with  their  work  in  silence, 
while  Jerry  cleared  his  voice  and  commenced  as  fol- 
lows : — * 

"  I  wonder  entirely,"  says  a  most  learned  doctor,  that 
used  to  be  tliere  in  old  limes — "  I  wonder  entirely,"  said 
he,  and  he  going  along  the  road — "  what  is  the  reason  that 
the  devil  doesn't  come  upon  the  earth  in  some  borrowed 

*  The  English  reader  will  at  once  perceive  a  striking  similitude 
between  thij  popular  cottage  legend  and  oue  of  (Jliuucer's  Canter' 
|jiu-y  Talus. 


1UE  COINER.  267 

shape  or  another,  and  so  tempt  people  to  sin  ;  it  -wouIJ  bt 
80  much  easier  to  talk  them  into  it  than  to  draw  them  by 
means  of  their  own  thoughts.  If  the  devil  would  hearken 
to  me,  I  think  I  could  put  him  in  a  way  of  getting  a  deal 
that's  voted  to  him,  and  that  he  knows  nothing  of."  And 
saying  this  he  turned  off  to  take  a  short  cut  across  the 
fields,  the  road  having  a  great  round  in  that  place. 

Passing  by  a  little  fort  tliat  was  in  his  way,  he  was  met 
by  a  man  who  came  out  from  among  the  trees  and  bid  him 
a  good  morning.  He  was  as  handsome  a  man  as  could  be 
— only  the  doctor  remarked  him  for  the  smallest  brogues, 
and  of  the  queerest  shape  that  could  be  imagined. 

"  Heaveji  and  Saint  Patrick  be  with  you  1"  says  the  doctor. 

"  Hum  !"  says  the  strange  man.  • 

"  And  who  are  you  now  that  say  '  Hum  !'  when  I  bid 
Heaven  be  with  you  ?"  says  the  doctor,  looking  down 
towards  his  heels,  where  he  saw,  just  peeping  out  under  the 
great  riding-coat,  something  like  the  end  of  a  hurly,  curl- 
ing, only  very  hairy. 

"  1  am  the  devil,"  says  the  strange  man.  (Lord  be- 
tween us  and  harm  !) 

"I  was  beginning  to  have  a  notion  of  the  kind  myself,'' 
says  the  doctor  agnin,  eyeing  the  tail  now  very  hard ;  but 
not  at  all  put  out  of  his  way,  being  used  to  all  sorts  of 
wickedness  himself  from  a  creature  up,  having  been  once  in 
his  time  a  tithe  proctoi'.  "  I  thought  no  less ;  and  jt 
proves  an  old  saying  very  true,  for  I  was  talking  of  you  to 
myself  just  as  you  started  up  before  me." 

"  No  good,  I'll  be  bail." 

"  BeLeve  it,  then.  No  good  in  the  world,  only  harm. 
I  was  wishing  that  you  would  employ  me  iu  collecting  your 
dues — what's  yours  by  right  only,  and  let  us  go  halves  iu 
the  profits." 

''  It's  a  match — give  me  the  hand,"  said  the  devil, 
•'  Lee  us  go  along  the  road  together,  and  whatever  you 
snake  out  to  be  mine,  I'll  have  it  surely." 


'"^08  suiL  Tijiuy, 

Away  t'uey  went,  the  holy  pair,  and  they  soon  got  out 
apon  the  liigh  road  again.  As  they  were  passing  along 
by  a  cabin  door,  they  saw  an  old.  woman  standing  with 
some  oats  in  her  apron,  and  she  trying  to  entice  some  of 
her  geese  and  goslings  in  to  her,  from  the  middle  of  a 
pond  where  they  were  swimming  about,  only  the  rogue 
of  a  gander  wouldn't  let  them  do  her  bidding. 

"  Why  then,"  says  the  old  woman,  "the  Diconce  talie 
3"0U  for  one  gander  ;  there's  no  ko  at  all  with  you." 

"  There  !"  says  the  doctor,  nudging  his  neigbour,  (Lord 
save  us  !)  "did  you  hear  that?" 

"  Ah  !  my  honest  friend,"  says  the  devil,  "that  gan- 
der is  a  fat  bird,  to  be  sure — but  'tis  none  o'  mine  stiU. 
That  curse  didn't  co??/e  from  the  heart,  though  it  was  sin- 
ful enough  to  give  me  power  over  the  woman." 

In  a  little  time  after,  the  blessed  couple  were  met  by  a 
countryman  with  a  little  slip  of  a  pig  that  he  was  driving 
to  the  fair,  to  make  up  i\\(i  defferenccd'  the  standing  gale. 
He  had  a  siigan  (hay-rope)  tied  about  one  of  the  hind  legs, 
and  a  good  blackthorn  switch  in  his  hand,  and  he  doing 
bis  best  endeavours  to  entice  him  on,  but  he  couldn't.  The 
j)ig,  as  young  pigs  will  do,  darted  now  at  his  side,  now  at 
that,  and  would  run  every  way  but  the  right  one — until 
at  last,  he  made  a  start  right  between  the  legs  of  his  dri- 
ver, tumbled  him  clean  in  the  mud  from  which  he  rose 
painted  all  sorts  o' colours — and  saw  the  pig  skdping  along 
the  road  home,  in  the  height  of  good  humour. 

"  Why  then,  the  Diconce  take,  fetch,  and  carry  every 
bone  in  your  carcase,  crubes*  and  all  !"  says  the  [toor  man, 
shaking  himself,  and  turning  into  a  meadow  to  roll  him- 
self in  the  grass,  beibre  hekifal/y  the  creature  home  again. 
"  Have  1  all  my  morning-'s  work  to  do  over  again — bad 
'cess  to  it  for  a  story  !" 

"  There  !  There  !"  cries  the  doctor. 

"  iS'ot  so  fast,"  cries  the  devil — "  that  was  but  u  slip  o 

*  Pettitoes. 


THE  COINER.  269 

the  tongue  after  all.  The  man  that  curst  is  mine,  but  not 
the  thing  he  curst,  for  the  heart  was  not  concerned  in  it." 

Well!  away  they  went;  and,  in  passing  by  a  potato- 
field,  they  saw  a  tithe  proctor  valuing  a  pit  o'  the  cu2:>s, 
and  a  man  standing  upon  it,  with  a  hammer  in  his  hand, 
going  to  cant  it  off  to  some  Palentins  tor  the  rent.  There 
was  a  poor  man  standing  at  the  road-side,  with  his  arms 
leaning  on  the  ditch,*  looking  at  the  sale  of  his  little  pro- 
perty. 

'"•  There's  ten  barrels,  all  going  for  an  old  song,  that  I 
raised  by  the  labour  of  these  hands.  May  the  Diconce  fetch 
all  the  tilhc-proctors  in  the  laud,  and  Heaven  bless  them 
that  sent  'em  to  us,  to  take  the  little  means  he  gave  us  out 
of  our  hands — " 

"Well!"  said  the  doctor,  "now  you  have  a  proctor  at 
any  rate — that  was  a  hearty  curse,  I'm  sure. 

At  this,  the  devil  put  both  his  hands  to  his  sides  and 
burst  out  in  a  fit  of  laughing.  "  Sisnd  you  sense  !  you  foolish 
man,"  said  he,  "  if  the  devil  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  to 
carry  away  all  the  tithe-proctors  that's  voted  to  him  in  a 
sumnier's-ilay,  he'd  be  soon  compelled  to  look  out  for  a  new 
corner  to  take  up  in,  for  they'd  have  all  hell  to  themselves 
in  less  than  no  time." 

"  Whew  !"  says  the  doctor,  "  if  this  be  the  way  with  you, 
I'm  likely  to  make  a  great  deal  by  my  bargain.  Get  out 
o'  my  way,  30U  lazy  gafter,"  said  he  (growing  cro.<s)  to 
a  little  boy  that  was  sitting  on  a  style  where  be  wanted  to 
pass. 

"  I'm  no  lazy  gaflPL'r,  you  great  natural,"  said  the  lad, 
"  and  I'll  not  stir  out  of  this,  for  you  have  no  right  to  tres- 
pass on  my  mother's  ground." 

Tlie  doctor  made  no  answer,  only  looked  at  him  for  a 
minute,  and  then  viz  his  stick,  and  laid  him  on  the  gruund 
quite  easy. 

"  Oh,  mui'der  alive !  you  Turk,  you  killed  my  boy,"  cried 
*  Hedge. 


270  SUIL  DHUV, 

the  mother,  who  was  sitting  combing  her  wool  at  the  cabin 
door.  "  Wliy  then,"  said  she,  falling  on  her  linees,  and 
lifting  up  her  two  hands,  "  the  mother's  curse  upon  youf 
head  ;  and  may  the  Diconce  carry  you  this  night,  for  draw- 
ing the  blood  of  my  child  !" 

"  Come,  my  good  man,  come  !"  said  the  devil,  seizing 
the  doctor  by  the  collar,  "the  favour  o'your  company  down 
hzhoio*     The  mother's  curse  is  on  you." 

"  Oh  !  nonsense,  nonsense  !  easy,  easy,  man  !"  said  the 
doctor,  "  but 

Before  he  could  well  know  what  he  was  about,  his  friend 
whisked  him  up  and  about  into  the  air,f  and  warm  was  the 
corner  he  had  for  him  before  night,  I'll  be  your  bail." 

"  Well,  Jerry,  you  bate  cocklighten  for  them  ould  fables; 
but  aisy,  an'  tell  me  who  are  those  over  the  hill  ?" 

The  speaker  pointed  to  three  horsemen  who  had  just 
turned  from  beneath  the  projection  of  a  small  hillock,  through 
Avhich  the  wild  and  broken  liigliway  had  b^n  cut,  and  who 
were  i>ushing  on  w  ith  as  much  rapidity  as  their  ill-conditioned 
horses  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  use.  The  better  mounted 
and  better  looking  of  the  two  foremost  wayflirers  belonged 
to  that  numerous  class  of  itinerant  preachers,  one  of  whom 
may  at  this  day  be  always  discerned  in  tine  harvest  weather, 
hovering  about  the  Palatine  villages,  and  may  be  recog- 
nised at  the  distance  of  half  a  mile,  jogging  it  softly  duwa 
hill  on  a  well-f.d,  fat-hainmcd,  rough-coated  pony,  an  um- 
brella tightly  folded  and  placed  in  rest  upon  the  thigh,  while 
the  smooth  and  glazed  oil  cover  of  his  hat  flashes 

"  back  again  the  western  blaze, 

In  lines  of  dazzling  ligiit — '* 

at  the  same  time  throwing  his  perhaps  too  jovial  rotundity  of 

*  English-Irish  for  below. 
+   Perhaps,  the  i<lea  of  connecting  the  cordkditj  of  the  curse  with 
tlie  workings  of   maternal  affection,   renders  tlie  conclusion  of  iho 
fable,  as  it  is  here  (juoted,  superior  in  poiut  of  nature,  to  that  uaed 
by  the  great  poet  above  mentioned. 


m. 


THE  COINEK.  271 

conntenance  Into  a  becoming  and  devotional  shade.  The 
specimen  of  the  order  hci"e  presented  dlft'cred  bnt  little  from 
the  generality  of  his  brethren.  He  was  a  person  of  im- 
mense proportions,  particularly  as  regarded  the  paunch, 
which  was  a  region  of  unparalleled  richness  and  extent,  and 
showed  to  particular  advantage  as  he  sat  on  horseback, 
his  position  there  causing  it  to  project  considerably  farther 
in  advance  than  was  its  natural  wont  when  on  foot.  His 
pony  was  a  sturdy  Uttle  animal,  but  of  stature  so  diminu- 
tive, that  the  feet  of  the  rider  might  have  materially  as- 
sisted his  progress  along  the  road,  were  it  not  that  the  sack- 
like formation  of  the  members  caused  them  to  describe  an 
equilateral  triangle,  in  order  to  afford  space  to  the  fat  little 
beast  between — an  arrangement  which  made  a  clear  course 
of  nearly  half  the  king's  highway. 

The  horseman  who  rode  beside  him,  and  who,  fi'om  his 
brick-red  complexion,  sloping  forehead,  and  small  eyes, 
supplied  very  sufficient  evidence  of  his  Palatinate  extraction, 
had  the  appearance  of  a  wealthy  farmer,  considerably  ad- 
vanced in  years,  though  not  sufficiently  so  to  abate  or 
qualify,  iu  the  slightest  degree,  the  expression  of  a  counte- 
nance which  was  marked  by  the  strongest  and  hardest 
liu.'S  which  an  habitual  violence  of  character  could  product!, 
or  to  soften  the  fire  of  a  small  and  piercing  eye,  which 
glanced  from  beneath  its  grizzled,  sandy  brow,  with  a  spirit 
of  strong  inquiry  and  resulutiou. 

The  third  traveller,  who  rode  at  a  little  distance  behind, 
as  if  rather  in  the  quality  of  servant  than  companion  to  the 
other  two,  we  shall  suffer  to  be  described  by  the  group  of 
peasantry,  who,  in  the  in  lulgeucc  of  that  idle  curiosity  which 
furms  a  shade  on  that  d  irk  side  of  the  national  character, 
left  uff  their  work  as  the  strangers  approached,  and  loaned 
furward  on  their  spades,  to  bestow  a  gibe  on  the  passing 
Palatines : — 

"Mark  tiie  nose,"  said  one,  "was  there  ever  the  aiq'l  of 
it  seen?     It  starts  out  betune  the  two  eyes  fair  euuagh. 


272  suiL  Duuv, 

only  then  it  do  be  growen  hetlier  and  tlietlicr,  and  every 
way  as  if  it  didn't  Icnow  tlie  way  to  tlie  mor.tli,  down." 

"  Lilve  tlie  gintleniin's  boreens,"*  said  a  second,  "  that 
they  doesn't  care  how  many  tiirnens  they'll  malce,  so  as 
they  coom  out  upon  the  high  road  at  last." 

"  Taken  a  ramble  about  the  counlcnance  for  sport,  this 
fine  even," 

"  An'  the  legs  !  You'd  imagine  the  calves  o'  them  got 
hungry,  an'  went  down  about  the  ankles,  seeing  would 
there  be  a  Avisp  o'  hay  in  the  brogues  at  all." 

"  Paddy  Moran  needn't  ax  a  better  bow  to  his  fiddle  at 
air  a  dance  in  the  parish,  any  way." 

"  Heaven  bless  your  work  !"  said  the  eldest  of  the  tra- 
vellers, in  a  strong  German  accent,  not  unminglcd  with  a 
degree  of  the  broad,  drawling  ji)«^02's  of  the  peojtle  he  was 
addressing,  as  a  turn  in  the  road  brought  both  parties 
within  hail. 

"An'  you  likewise!"  was  returned  by  a  few  voices, 
while  some  (such  is  the  influence  of  wealth)  conquered  their 
contempt  for  the  race  of  usurpers  so  far  as  to  touch  their 
hats. 

"  The  village  of  Court-Mattress  is  fifteen  long  miles  from 
you  yet,"  said  an  elderly  labourer,  in  answer  to  an  inquiry 
made  at  him  by  the  old  Palatine.  "  Who  can  them  be, 
now  ?"  he  continued,  as,  after  a  short  consultation,  the  two 
strangers  put  spurs  to  their  steeds,  and  quickened  their 
pace  from  an  equivocal  kind  of  canter  to  a  jolting,  bone- 
breaking  trot— "  An'  the  sarvint  after 'em,  too!  Gon- 
doutha  !  It's  easy  for  ye  !  But  stir — stir,  Jerry  ;  wliat 
l.'izniz  is  it  of  ours  ?  an'  Paddy  Barret  six  seeds  a-head  of 
uz,  an'  the  master  coming  over  the  gap,  see." 

We  will  follow  the  travellers.     Tiie  evening  was  bright, 

still,  and  sunny.     The  air  was  quiet,  the  sky  cloudless,  the 

calm  so  profound  that  the  voices  of  some  sportsmen  on  tho 

distant  hills  were  heard  almost  as  plainly  by  the  wayfarers 

Avenues. 


THE  COINER.  273 

83  if  they  bad  been  speaking  in  the  aLljaccnt  field?,  and  the 
sound  of  the  Race,*  though  many  miles  distant  from  them, 
came  with  a  faint,  but  deep  and  perceptible  influence  upon 
their  hearing.  It  was  ab-eady  far  into  tbe  season  of  ear 
and  blossom,  and  tlie  country  side  over  which  they  rode 
presented  a  scene  of  beauty  and  abundance  which,  had 
they  passed  the  same  way  in  a  lew  months  after,  would 
have  formed  a  wonderful  contrast  to  the  general  appear- 
ance of  want  and  misery  which,  then  as  well  as  now,  the 
great  encouragement  held  out  to  exporters  of  provision  oc- 
casioned in  the  Avintcr  season  in  Ireland.  Here  a  wide 
plain  covered  with  barley  yet  green  in  ear  undulated  like  a 
summer  lake,  and  there  the  potato  spread  its  dark  green 
coveiing  over  many  an  acre,  one  particle  of  the  produce  of 
which  was  doomed  never,  perhaps,  to  supjjly  a  day's  sus- 
tenance to  the  wretch  by  whose  labour  they  had  been  cul- 
tivated. On  one  hand,  the  sober  wheat  contrasted  its 
grave  and  wealthy  air  with  the  h'ght  rustling  of  the  oatfield 
that  adjoined  it ;  while  further  in  the  distance  many  a 
field  of  rape,  already  in  blossom,  showed  like  broad  sheets 
of  gold,  inlaid,  as  if  to  impart  addiiional  splendour  to  the 
gigantic  mosaic  of  nature. 

After  they  had  passed  out  of  the  hearing  of  the  group 
of  the  peasants,  the  two  foremost  of  the  travellers  resumed 
a  conversation  which  appeared  to  have  been  only  inter- 
rupted I'or  the  purpose  of  obtaining  information  as  to  the 
progress  of  their  route. 

"  ludeet,  Mr.  Sliine,"  said  the  old  man,  after  he  had 
compressed  his  lips  and  given  vent  to  a  heavy  sigh — "  the 
cause  is  more  than  I  gan  tell  you  :  that  some  change  must 
have  taken  place,  I  am  perfectly  certain,  and  zome  unplea- 
sant one,  too  ;  for  poor  Sarah  was  one  of  the  most  dutiful 
cliildrcn  that  ever  parent  blessed.  It  is  very  true  that  I 
suspected  something  when  she  mentioned  in  one  of  hct 

*  The  liace  of  Tarbert — an  estuary  iu  the  River  Shannon  several 
tniles  in  extent 

12* 


274  SUIL  DHUV, 

Litest  letters  the  appearance  of  that  young  ruffian  about  the 
village,  and  my  heart  burned  withia  me  when  the  poor  de- 
luded creature  hinted  the  possibility  of  his  becoming  a 
reformed  and  graceful  member.  She  might  as  well  talk  of 
the  Evil  One  becoming  a  reformed  and  graceful  member ; 
for  except  wliat  amendment  the  gallows  will  work  in  him, 
Dionysius  will  never  be  anything  better  than  an  iugrate 
and  a  profligate." 

"He  that  can  ingraft  strange  branches  on  the  tree  may 
surely  at  his  pleasure  revive  the  old  and  dissevered,"  said 
his  companion,  "  But  the  common  accidents  of  life  may 
have  caused  an  intermission  in  your  correspondence  with- 
out any  failure  of  duty  on  the  part  of  your  cliild,  whom  I 
bless  in  my  soul — remembering  well  her  comeliness,  and 
her  docility  on  the  occasion  of  my  sojourning  an  evening  at 
her  aunt's,  to  whose  care,  I  believe,  you  committed  her,  on 
leaving  the  laud,  some  years  past.  How  long  since  Ls  tho 
date  of  her  last  letter  ?" 

''  Five  years." 

"  And  how  long  have  you  been  absent  ?" 

The  (piestiun  appeared  to  excite  some  disagreeable  asso- 
ciations in  the  mind  of  the  old  Palatine,  and  he  paused  for 
a  considerable  time,  as  if  following  up  the  train  of  melan- 
choly recollections  which  it  awakened,  before  he  returned 
an  answer.  The  details  of  the  conversation  which  followed 
the  interruption  may  be  more  briefly  and  conveniently 
given  to  the  reader  in  our  own  words. 

A  sturdy -looking,  black-haired,  black-eyed  liitle  boy 
about  nine  or  ten  years  of  age,  and  clothed  in  a  misera'tle 
shred  of  coarse  frieze,  was  observed,  at  the  blush  of  a  fine 
summer  dawn,  trotting  at  full  speed  along  a  crooked  and 
bioken-up  avenue,  or  borheen,  leading  to  the  firm-hoiiseof 
Isaac  S.'gur,  a  comfortable  Palatine  landholder  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  vill  i^e  which  we  have  before  nieu- 
tioncd.  From  the  anxious  and  hesitating  expression  which 
was  mingled  wiih  the  natural  boldness  and  darkness  of  his 


TAE  COI.XLR.  275 

conn  ten  nricp,  it  wouli]  have  appeared  to  a  stranger  that  the 
ciiiid  v/as  conscious  of  possessing  no  apology  or  aiitliority 
for  the  intrusion  which  he  contemplated,  and  he  cast 
cautious  and  wavering  gUuices  on  all  sides  before  he  ven- 
tured to  clamber  over  the  stile  which  brought  him  on  the 
neat  green  plot  before  tlie  cottage  door.  The  windvws 
were  still  closed,  and  everytiiing  around  bore  the  appear- 
ance of  perfect  repose,  insomuch  that  the  adventurer  paused, 
and  remained  seated  on  the  stile  for  a  few  moments,  with 
the  air  of  one  who  has  a  purpose  to  accomplish,  and  sees 
a  thousand  terrors  and  ditiiculties  between  him  and  its 
fruition.  A  light  curling  smoke  from  one  of  the  chimneys 
at  length  caught  his  eye,  and  having  once  assured  himself 
on  the  preparatory  indication  within,  he  bounded  from  the 
hedge  upon  the  little  lawn,  disturbing  by  his  sudden  and 
fay-like  descent  the  yet  slumbering  animals  who  composed 
the  stock  of  the  industrious  and  well-appointed  propiietor 
of  the  place.  A  flock  of  geese,  goslings,  and  ganders  flew 
with  outstretched  necks  and  loud  hisses  of  unwelcome  from 
beneath  the  hedge,  and  then  raars'iallcd  themselves  in 
battle  array  between  him  and  the  house,  the  male  bird 
marching  like  a  tield-officer  up  and  down  the  lines,  and 
warning  him,  by  most  warlike  cacklings,  of  the  dangers  of 
an  assault.  Some  newly -shoi'n  wethers  bounded  in  dismay 
to  the  furthest  limit  of  the  area,  and  there  huddled  them- 
selves together  in  a  corner,  as  if  in  expectation  of  instant 
annihilation.  A  staggering  bony  calf  threw  up  its  hind 
legs,  whisked  its  tail,  cut  a  few  strange  capers,  and  fol- 
lowed their  example.  The  little  fellow  did  not  appear' 
much  daunted  by  the  confusion  he  had  occasioned  or  the 
formidable  host  of  enemies  who  seemed  prepared  to  oppose 
bis  progress,  and  ho  was  about  to  advance  with  great 
spirit ;  but  his  cheek  grew  pale,  and  his  quick,  jet-black 
eye  began  to  assume  a  more  expanded  and  watery  appear- 
ance, when  the  deep  thunder  of  a  huge  mastiff  watch  juined 
in  terrific  diapason  with  the  cackling  of  the  geeiCj  the 


276  SUIL  DHUV, 

bleating  of  sheep,  the  quacking  of  dncks,  the  grunting  of 
pigp,  and  the  clatter  of  a  hundred  dilFerent  species  of  do- 
mcslic  fowl.  Nevertheless,  the  invader  stood  manfully  to 
his  ground,  and  stooped  forward  in  the  vain  hope  of  mak- 
ing-an  eflcctual  struggle  with  the  excited  animal,  on  whom 
his  eyes  were  fixed,  when  one  of  the  front  windows  was 
thrown  open,  and  a  friendly  voice  interrupted  its  onset  in 
good  time. 

"  Faust,  down  !  down,  ser !  back  here  agen — back !" 
The  countermand  was  given  by  a  female  who  leaned  h;df- 
drcssed  out  of  the  window,  while  the  young  stranger,  flush- 
ing witli  renewed  courage,  advanced  to  the  door  of  the 
cottage,  the  dog  Faust  following,  and  snuffing  inquisitively 
about  him  as  they  proceeded. 

"  Well,  au'  who  are  you,  my  little  fellow  ?" 
The  "  little  fellow"  raised  his  hand  to  his  brow,  and 
plucked  himself  by  the  forelock  (a  black  and  shining  curl), 
in  token  of  courtesy  as  he  replied — 
"  Dinny  Mac,  thin." 

"  An'  what  brought  you  here,  Dinny  Mac,  at  this  hour 
in  the  morning  ?" 

"  Wisha,  I  dun  know." 

*'  Where  do  you  live — or  who  are  yon  at  all  ?" 
"  0  then,  I  dun  know,  ma'am — only  my  mother,  west- 
wards, married  another  husband  about  a  month  sence,  and 
I  couldn't  stand  her  at  all  after  for  bating  me  without  any 
raison  ;  and  the  man  she  took  to  was  as  bad  as  her,  and 
they  both  tuk  an'  turned  me  out  o' doores  'isthorday,  with- 
out sayen  a  word  only  bating  me  the  two  of  'em,  wit  the 
brooiustick  till  me  back  was  broke  intirely." 

"  And   what  do  you   mean  to  do  with  yourself  now, 
Dinny  Mac?" 

"  Wisha,  I  dun  know." 

"  What  is  it  you  were  coming  here  for  ?" 

"  Seeing  would  I  get  me  buckisht  agin  the  road." 

iiv  this  time  the  cottage  door  was  opened,  and  a  stoufc- 


THE  COINER.  277 

looking  hale  man  made  liis  appearance,  accompanleJ  by  an 
exquisitely  bcaiitiial  girl,  wbose  clear  rosy  cheeks,  long 
flaxen  hair,  and  full,  well-opened  eyes,  contrasted  finely 
with  the  strongly- marked  and  darkly-shaded  features  of  the 
adventurous  "  Dinny."  The  latter  remained  leaning  against 
the  rough-cast  wall,  and  picking  off  the  little  protuberances 
with  his  fingers,  while  he  cast  from  time  to  time  a  shy  and 
irresolute  side-glance  towards  the  fair  daughter  of  the  far- 
mer. The  man  contemplated  the  intruder  for  some  time 
in  silence,  and  appeared  doubtful  of  the  course  which  he 
should  adopt,  when  it  was  decided  by  a  movement  of  the 
child  who  stood  by  him.  After  gazing  with  a  soft  and  ex- 
panded stare  of  wonder  upon  the  dark  boy,  she  slided  cau- 
tiously towards  him,  and  again  renewing  her  gaze  of  admi- 
ration, while  the  otlier  returned  her  glance  with  one  of 
unusual  fire  and  intensity  ;  half  in  intimidation,  half  in  good- 
Avill,  the  little  girl  protruded  a  pair  of  cherry  lips,  which 
were  instantly  honoured  with  a  greeting  that  "  came  twang- 
ing off,"  by  tlic  unhesitating  youth.  The  old  Palatine's 
heart  was  struck  in  the  soft  place. 

"  Come,  gaffer,"  said  he,  "  since  you  have  made  yourself 
welcome  with  the  young  mistress,  you'll  have  your  break- 
fast at  any  rate.     In  with  you,  and  behave  yourself." 

Dinny  Mac  went  in  as  he  was  dosircd,  but  not,  as  the 
event  proved,  to  make  so  brief  a  sojourn  in  the  household 
as  the  proprietor  intended.  A  succession  of  circumstances 
not  worth  detailing  prevented  his  dcpartuie  that  day,  and 
the  next,  and  the  next  after  that,  until  habit,  hospitality, 
and  convenience  combined  to  estabhsh  him  among  the  re- 
tainers of  the  domicile,  in  that  equivocal  office  which  in  Li^h 
rustic  families  is  designated  by  the  word ^orsoow.  His  duly 
ior  many  years  was  to  run  on  messages  to  tlie  neighbouiing 
hamlet — to  fetch  a  daily  pennyworth  of  tobacco  for  the  old 
woman — to  keep  the  pigs  upon  their  good  behaviour — drive 
home  the  cows  at  night — watch  the  gardens  at  seed  time 
— aud  ia  short,  "  turn  his  baud,"  and  his  feet  too  occasion- 


278  SUIL  DHUV, 

ally,  to  anj  thing  wliich  it  needed  not  the  exertion  of  ma. 
tiirer  limbs  to  accomplish.  As  far  as  attention  to,  and 
cheerfulness  in  the  execution  of  every  trust  confided  to  him 
could  go,  it  was  inipossible  for  Diuny — or  Dionysius,  as  his 
new  and  more  formal  protectors  called  him — to  give  greater 
satisfaction  to  his  patron  than  he  did ;  but  there  was  one 
evil  occasioned  by  his  presence  in  the  house,  which  more 
than  counterbalanced  all  his  merits.  The  effect  which  his 
first  appearance  had  produced  on  the  infant  daughter  of  the 
Palatine  continued  progressively  on  the  increase,  through 
the  subsequent  stages  uf  childhood,  girlhood,  and  youth  ; 
and  at  fifteen  3'ears  of  age  the  sensation  with  which  she  re- 
garded the  daring  and  dark-minded  Lid,  might  be  found  to 
resemble,  in  every  particular,  the  mingled  emotion  of  fear 
and  admiration  which  he  had  occasioned  her  on  the  morning 
when  accident  first  conducted  him  to  her  father's  house.  Tho 
real  nature  of  the  feeling  continued  precisely  the  same,  but 
that  time,  long  habit,  and  unavoidable  proximity  of  iutei'- 
course,  and  the  gradual  development  of  her  own  character 
as  it  approached  the  seriousness  of  womanhood,  had  strength- 
ened and  deepened  the  affection  into  a  rooted  and  engross- 
ing passion — a  circumstance  evidently  unfortunate  for  the 
poor  girl,  and  the  more  extraordinary  as  the  progress  of  in- 
timacy with,  and  consequent  insight  into  the  character  and 
disposition  of  her  father's  dependant  was  not  calculated  to 
add  a  well-founded  esteem  to  the  emotions  which  he  had 
already  excited  in  her  mind.  With  this,  however,  we,  as 
her  historians,  are  not  disposed  to  quarrel,  for  it  is  apparent 
that  if  love  were  not  in  the  gentler  sex  altogether  an  ano- 
maly— if  woman  made  her  reason  on  all  occasions  the  coun- 
terscarp to  her  affeciions,  and  never  jielded  her  heart  on 
any  terms  but  those  of  convenience,  the  very  foundation  of 
all  romance  would  be  annihilated.  Her  father,  however,  \\  ho 
was  no  philosopher,  and  could  by  no  possible  train  of  rea- 
soning bring  himself  to  discover  points  of  coincidence  or 
euitability  between  two  characters  hlliug  situ;aions  almost 


THE  COIXEK.  279 

as  distinct  as  those  of  incni;i,l  and  mistress,  was  overwhelmed 
with  indignation  and  astonishment  when  the  probabihty  ot 
go  presposterous  an  attachment  first  broke  upon  him.  A 
fev/  words  of  fierce  recrimination  ended  in  an  oath  of  eternal 
hatred  and  enmity  between  liim  and  his  protege,  and  the 
latter  was  ejected  from  the  dwelling  where  he  had  spent  the 
greater  portion  of  his  life,  with  as  little  ceremony  as  was 
used  in  a  similar  predicament  by  the  Baron  of  Thuntcrden- 
tronck. 

Some  confin;.'ment,  a  little  reasoning,  a  great  deal  of 
menace,  and  a  natural  phabiUty  of  character,  soon  produced 
all  the  efl'ect  Avhich  her  father  could  have  wished  on  the 
affections  of  the  imprudent  Sarah  Segur.  The  proud 
spirited  beggar-boy  never  appeared  in  the  neighbourhood 
after — and  seemed  even  to  have  extended  his  ready  hatred 
to  the  gi'Utle  and  suffering  cause  of  his  disfavour.  'Twas 
but  a  few  weeks'  peaking  and  pining — some  duzen  sighs — 
half  dinners — tears — and  one  fit  of  hysterics,  and  Sarah 
Segur  was  again  the  briglit-haired,  blue-eyed,  sofi-checked 
ornament  of  her  native  village,  and  delight  of  her  flither's 
heart.  What  became  of  her  first  love,  she  neither  asked, 
nor  seemed  to  care. 

Two  years  after  this  transaction,  a  very  strong  induce- 
ment held  out  by  a  commercial  relative  in  Germany,  occa- 
sioned a  total  revolution  in  the  affairs  of  the  worthy  far- 
mer. Committing  his  farm  to  the  care  of  a  cousin,  and 
his  daughter  to  the  guardianship  and  tutelage  of  an  expe- 
rienced female  roLitive,  he  exchanged,  during  some  years, 
the  laud  of  his  birth,  for  that  of  liis  ancestors,  and  found 
the  advantage  of  the  sacrifice  he  m:ide  of  his  domestic  con- 
venience, in  a  Considerable  iucreasj  of  wealth.  For  some 
time,  the  accounts  which  he  re  eived  from  home  were  such 
as  to  Lave  him  no  ground  to  regret  the  step  which  he  had 
taken,  and  he  went  on,  hoarding  money,  and  forming  a 
thousand  different  schemes  for  its  disbursement,  when  a 
letter  from  his  daughter,  informing  him,  though  in  the  most 


280  SUIL  DIIUV, 

gnarcled  and  cautions  mannor,  of  tlic  re- appearance  of  the 
delinquent  Dlnny  in  the  neighbouihood,  and  even  at  the 
cottage  of  the  Palatine,  startled  and  filled  hira  with  dismay 
and  apprehension.  She  described  him  in  the  most  touching 
manner,  as  presenting  a  picture  of  misery,  of  repentance, 
and  abject  poverty,  which  would  make  resentment  not  only 
inhuman  but  ridiculous,  and  ended  by  suggesting,',  in  a  very 
circuitous  way,  the  possibility  of  an  entire  reformation  in 
the  young  man,  in  case  her  father  should  give  him  another 
trial.  The  sagacious  Palatine,  however,  judged  tha\  either 
the  inexperience  or  the  enthusiasm  of  the  letter-writer  had 
led  her  into  error,  so  far  as  her  p'-ognostio  was  concerned  ; 
and  he  was,  although  much  against  ^:Is  inclination,  compelled 
to  suspect  that  she  had  used  more  or  less-  exaggeration  in 
her  account  of  the  young  rebel's  mean  submission.  His 
estimate  of  Dinny's  character  was  right,  although  it  was 
very  true  that  the  latter  had,  as  Sarah  mentioned,  made 
his  appearance  on  the  farm.  Segur  immediately  answered 
the  letter  in  a  tone  of  violent  and  unabated  indignation,  and 
the  subject  was  not  again  renewed.  In  a  little  time  after, 
an  account  reached  him  that  his  kinsman  had  been  struck 
with  blindness,  and  that  several  losses  in  consequence  had 
accrued  to  the  property.  This  latter  circumstance,  how 
ever,  which  he  was  sufficiently  provided  against,  gave  him 
not  a  tithe  of  the  uneasiness  which  was  occasioned  by  the 
irregularity,  and  at  length  the  infrcquency  of  the  letters 
v.'hich  were  transmitted  to  him  from  his  family,  and  the  con- 
viction that  some  dreadful  change  had  taken  place,  was 
soon  confirmed  by  the  total  cessation  of  all  communication 
whatever.  Filled  with  a  thousand  alarms  and  uncertain- 
ties, he  was  now  relurning  to  a-ceitain  the  cause,  what- 
ever it  might  be,  of  the  singular  neglect  v/hich  had  paineu 
liim. 

In  the  meantime  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  glance 
at  the  fortunes  of  his  young  foe  during  the  interval,  lie 
had  contracted,  soon  alter  his  expulsion  from  the  Palatine'a 


raE  COINER.  281 

honsehold,  a  close  fneiiclship  with  the  sole  offspring  of  his 
unkind  mother's  second  marriage,  who  had  Ijeen,  for  some 
years  past,  left  with  himself  in  a  state  of  orphanage,  nndef 
circumstances  peculiarly  calculated  (if  that  alone  had  not 
been  sufficient)  to  bind  them  to  each  other;  in  a  league, 
too,  much  closer  than  that  involved  by  the  general  claims  oi 
their  relationship,  which,  according  to  the  opinions  of  the 
class  in  which  they  were  brought  up,  are  sufficient  grounds  for 
St,  casus  foederis  of  mutual  offence  and  defence  on  all  occa- 
sions. The  brothers  resided  together  in  the  cabin  in  which 
they  had  first  seen  the  light — held  their  acre  of  potato- 
ground  in  common,  lived  together,  worked  together,  fought 
together,  and  drank  together.  This  very  closeness  of  at- 
tachment, however,  had  unhappily  the  effect  of  involving 
them  in  a  greater  number  of  quarrels  with  their  neighbours 
than  that  to  which  the  hereditary  privilege  of  an  Irish  pea- 
sant might  be  supposed  fairly  to  entitle  them.  The  secret 
of  this  tendency  to  disunion  might  be  fuund  in  the  fact  that 
either  of  the  friends  was  far  more  apt  to  resent  an  insult, 
real  or  imagined,  offered  to  the  other,  than  if  he  had  recei\  ed 
it  in  his  own  person ;  and  the  natural  consequence  was, 
that  before  long,  their  hands,  like  those  of  Ishmael,  were 
against  every  man's,  and  every  man's  hand  against  theirs. 
Still,  however,  there  was  no  deep  moral  offence,  of  such  a 
nature  as  could  awaken  the  serious  indignation  of  their 
neighbours,  imputed  to  them,  and  their  extraordinary  fond- 
ness for  fighting  had  only  the  eftect  of  injuring  themselves, 
and  increasing  the  custom  of  the  village  apothecary. 

Great  therefore  was  the  consternation  which  spread 
through  the  cottage  circles,  when  one  summer  morning  as 
the  Macuamaras  were  leaving  their  humble  cabin  with  their 
slanes  on  their  shoulders,  in  order  to  proceed  to  their  daily 
toil — a  party  of  soldiers,  with  a  magistrate  at  their  head, 
intercepted  their  progress,  and  laying  hands  on  the  younger 
brother,  arrested  him  in  the  name  ot  the  king  for  a  midnight 
a&jauit  on  the  dwelling-house  of  the  very  man  who  waa 


282  suiL  Dur\', 

appointed  the  guardian  of  his  property  and  his  child,  by 
the  Palatine.  It  came  like  a  thunderstroke  upon  the  mind 
of  the  elder  brother,  Diany — as  he  was  still  called — he 
thought  it  impossible  that  the  transaction  could  have  taken 
place  without  his  knowing  it ;  he  remonstrated  violently — 
but  the  civil  officer  persisted  in  the  course  he  was  pursuing, 
and  the  sullen  silence  of  the  younger,  joined  to  the  pale- 
ness and  conscious  anxiety  which  overspread  his  features, 
operated  with  a  more  fearful  influence  upon  the  incredulity 
of  the  youth,  than  all  the  confident  pertinacity  of  his  accu- 
sers. The  prisoner  was  led  away  and  flung  into  the  county 
gaol,  after  wringing  the  hand  of  his  relative  with  a  bitter- 
ness of  feeling,  which  those  only  can  imagine  avIio  part  for 
the  last  time  with  a  good  friend,  and  leave  him  no  legacy 
but  shame  and  loneliness. 

Neither  has  it  fallen  to  the  lot  of  many  to  know  what 
the  degree  of  that  loneliness  Mas  in  the  instance  of  the  elder 
Macnamara.  Unacquainted  with,  from  the  manner  of  his 
education,  as  well  as  unfitted,  from  the  nature  of  his  dispo- 
sition, for  tlie  exei'cise  of  any  of  those  noble  resources  by 
wliicli  more  cultivated  minds  are  enabled  to  support  them- 
selves beneath  the  pressure  of  an  unforeseen  affliction,  he 
abandoned  himself,  without  an  eflbrt  at  resistance,  to  the 
spirit  of  desolation  which  came  upon  him.  He  became 
spiritless,  and  despor.ding,  neglected  his  employments,  for- 
sook the  wake,  the  dance,  the  fair,  the  hurling  match,  and 
the  public-hou^e,  and  awaited  in  helpless  anxiety  the  issue  of 
his  brother's  trial,  stalking  like  one  that  is  m_o]}ed  with  sor- 
row, around  the  precincts  of  the  prison,  shunning  the  sight 
and  converse  of  his  old  acquaintances,  and  pitied  even  by 
those  whose  heads  bore  frequent  testimony  to  his  prompti- 
tude and  ready  spirit  in  earlier  and  prouder  days.  Had  the 
offence  with  which  his  brother  was  charged  b^en  merely  an 
outrage,  it  would  only  have  aftlcted  his  fortunes,  or  his  per- 
sonal safety,  and  left  some  consolation  to  those  wha  boro 
h..  uanie  j  but  theft — sheep-stealing  had  been  superadded, 


THE  COINEE.  233 

and  (iHorace  was  fixed  upon  his  repntatiou  ;  for,  among  the 
pciisaiiiry  of  Ireland,  their  proverbial  honesty  is  not  so  much 
occasioned  by  their  abliorrence  of  the  positive  injury  wiiich 
the  contrary  practice  inflicts  on  their  noiglibour,  as  by  their 
contempt  for  the  indication  which  the  Litter  affords  of  a 
low  and  mean  spirit  on  the  part  of  the  perpetrator.  Thus, 
for  instance,  on  one  occasion,  when  the  elder  brother  over- 
heard a  neighbour  "  wondering  that  any  body  wouldn't 
drop  down  with  the  shame,  to  be  caught  doen  such  a  m.ane 
thing,"  and  retorted  on  the  hag,  that  she  had  herself  had  a 
son  hanged  for  murder,  she  replied,  with  infinite  composure 
and  satisfaction,  "  Oh,  the  heavens  be  praised  that  it  wasn't 
a  cow  or  a  sheep  he  stole!" 

The  compassion  entertained  for  the  elder  and  unsuspected 
brother,  was  sufficient  to  procure  him  admission  on  the  day 
of  Macnamara's  trial,  within  the  precincts  of  the  bar,  and 
at  the  foot  of  the  table  appointed  for  the  accommodation  of 
evidence  and  of  the  crier,  a  bustling  and  im[)ortant  person- 
age, whose  duty  it  is  in  Irish  courts  to  be  as  noisy  as  pos- 
sible in  procuring  "  silence" — to  perform  the  part  of  mouth- 
piece to  the  clerk  of  the  crown — marshal  the  spectators  to 
their  different  places — thrust  out  the  orange-women — knock 
little  boys  on  the  head  with  a  long  white  wand — and  con- 
vey by  means  of  a  slit  in  the  end  of  said  wand,  epistles 
from  all  quarters  of  the  court.  Under  the  patronage  of 
this  great  man,  poor  young  JMacnamara  was  permitted  to 
occupy  one  of  the  steps  leading  to  the  witness  table,  while 
his  brother  was  called  on  before  God  and  his  country,  to 
answer  to  a  charge  of  life  and  death. 

It  is  needless  to  enter  into  any  detail  either  on  the  par- 
ticulars of  the  case,  or  the  feelings  of  the  friends,  according 
as  every  circumstance  of  corroboration  was  brought  forward; 
until  at  length,  the  deep  and  deadly  conviction  of  the  guilt 
ot  the  accused  became  stamped  upon  the  mind  of  every 
spectator,  and  was  manifested  by  the  emphatic  nod  and 
compression  of  the  hps,  which  passed  in  silence  aoion^  tho 


284  suiL  Diiuv, 

more  intelligerit  of  the  listeners.  Still,  however,  the  eyes  of 
the  devoted  wretch  and  his  forlorn  relative  were  fixed,  in 
all  but  utter  hopelessness,  upon  the  door  of  the  jury  room  ; 
the  stake  at  issue  being  too  awfully  great  to  permit  them 
to  yield  up  their  reliance  upon  the  hope  Avhich  they  knew 
to  be  unfounded,  until  circumstances  should  have  forcibly 
torn  it  from  them.  That  door  at  length  was  opened,  and 
the  doom  of  the  prisoner  was  manifest  in  the  solemn  and 
reluctant  manner  of  the  foreman,  as  he  tendered  the  written 
verdict  to  the  clerk  of  the  crown.  The  criminal  cast  a 
dreary  glance  around  him,  when  called  upon  to  plead 
against  his  sentence,  but  could  not  utter  a  word :  and  the 
judge  had  already  proceeded  far  in  his  discourse  to  the 
prisoner,  and  was  approaching  the  usual  form  of  condem- 
nation, when  a  figure,  pale,  wild,  and  haggard  in  gesture 
and  appearance,  appeared  on  the  witness  table.  It  Avas 
that  of  the  elder  Macnamara.  He  raised  his  hands  im- 
ploringly toward  the  bench,  while  his  frame  shook  and  bis 
features  quivered  with  emotion. 

"My  lord  !"  he  exclaimed,  "stop  talkcn  to  the  boy,  for 
'twas  I  done  the  deed." 

A  universal  murmur  of  astonish.ment  passed  through  the 
court  at  this  declaration.  A  whisper  at  the  same  time  waa 
circulated  among  the  counsel,  the  import  of  which  seemed 
to  be  confirmed  by  the  half-crazy  appearance  and  demean- 
our of  the  youth.     The  prisoner  was  appealed  to. 

"  My  lord,"  he  replied  with  a  mournful  toss  of  the  head, 
"  I  wouldn't  have  you  give  in  to  him — I  won't  say  it  was 
meself  done  it — but  it  wasn't  he  any  way." 

The  young  man  was  in  consequence  removed,  as  a  per- 
son whose  enthusiastic  affection  had  affected  his  reason,  and 
(as  the  legal  phrase  is)  judgment  and  execution  followed 
accordingly,  in  the  person  of  the  younger  brother. 

The  original  character  of  the  elder  Macnamara  was  now 
c^impletely  restored.  He  once  more  resumed  all,  and  n)oro 
thau  all,  the  ready  violence  and  fierceness  of  decii;auuur  lor 


THE  COINER.  285 

■which  he  was  formerly  far  more  remarkable  than  his  dead 
brother,  and  seemed  to  exist  only  in  the  hope  of  being  one 
day  enabled  to  avenge  tlie  blood  of  the  latter,  against  his 
prosecutor,  the  guardian  Segur,  and  the  whole  of  his  family, 
excepting  perhaps  the  innocent  object  of  his  own  early  at- 
tentions. He  noAv  seemed  to  have  abandoned  every  other 
care  but  that  of  gratifying  this  single  passion.  His  cabin 
w'as  forsaken,  his  garden  left  untiiled,  all  his  accustomed 
haunts  appeared  to  be  forgotten  or  deserted,  and  he  might 
occasionally  be  observed  gliding  at  night-fall,  like  a  spectre, 
among  the  sally-groves  and  along  the  hedges  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  his  enemy.  The  latter  felt  that  he  had  deep 
cause  to  regret  a  transaction  which  rendered  him  obnoxious 
to  a  being  so  desperate  and  ill-conditioned  as  his  persecutor. 
He  was  a  weak,  sickly  man,  of  a  nervous  and  almost  femi- 
nine feebleness  of  mind  and  frame,  and  never  dared  venture 
out  unaccompanied  by  some  person  of  strength  sufficient  to 
protect  him  against  any  attempt  which  could  be  made  on 
his  life ;  aad  even  Mith  these  jirecautions  he  found  himself 
compelled  to  eat  his  bread  amid  all  the  terrors  of  insecurity. 
All  the  exertions  and  persuasions  of  his  friends,  his  niece 
among  the  number  (who  calculated  much  on  her  own  in- 
fluence over  the  mind  of  the  young  man,  if  they  could  but 
fiad  an  opportunity  of  using  it,)  were  iueifectual  in  restor- 
ing calmness  to  his  mind.  His  sleep  was  broken  by  fright- 
ful dreams,  and  the  oath  which  his  foj  I  ad  taken  ia  his 
own  hearing,  that  he  would  have  "blood  for  blood  before 
the  gr.iss  should  wither  on  his  brother's  grave',"  sounded 
for  ever  in  his  ears.  After  many  fruitless  etforts,  however, 
to  obtain  an  opportunity  of  accomplishing  his  threats,  young 
Macnamara  suddenly  disappeared  from  the  neighbourhood, 
and  nothing  more  was  seen  or  heard  of  him  for  several 
months.  Better  hopes  began  to  break  in  upon  the  mind 
of  the  object  of  his  hate,  and  he  ventured,  after  some  time 
spent  in  many  vaiu  endeavours  to  ascertain  the  position  of 


2S5  SUIL  DHUV, 

his  enemy,  to  resume  liis  wonted  occupations  about  the  farm 
without  fear  of  personal  danger. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Now  all  you  demons  tliat  delight  in  blood — 
Ye  spirit-stirring  agents — whose  it  is 
To  fan  hate's  embers  when  they  smoulder — now 
Hover  about  me !     Wave  your  burning  pinions 
Till  you  shake  flame  into  my  inmost  soul — 
And  let  pale  INIemory's  hand  mark  but  one  point 
In  the  wide  circle  of  past  time — and  that 
Will  goad  me  to  the  task — " 

He  was  returning  on  a  bright  moonlight  night  from  a 
water-mill  in  his  own  neighbourhood,  where  he  had  remained 
to  a  late  hour,  superintending  the  grinding  of  a  consi- 
derable quantity  of  corn,  and  making  the  night  jovial  with 
the  miller,  in  the  excess  of  his  delight  at  a  piece  of  good 
news  with  which  the  latter  had  been  entertaining  him.  This 
■was  no  other  than  that  one  Dennis  Macnamara  had  been 
tried  and  convicted  at  the  assizes  of  Cork,  for  some  felo- 
nious otfence,  and  obtained  a  free  passage  in  a  king's  ship 
bound  for  the  new  world.  They  had  been  quaffing  to  the 
favourable  passage  of  the  young  emigrant,  until  Segur 
became 

«'  Na  that  fou 
But  just  a  drappie  in  his  ee," 

and  solemnly  protested,  in  a  speech  much  more  remarkable 
for  the  emphatic  energy  and  needlessly  vehement  gesticu- 
lation with  which  it  was  delivered,  than  for  its  eloquence  or 
sound  sense,  against  taking  another  tumbler. 

He  had  proceeded  already  a  considerable  distance  on  bis 
wiiy  home.  His  health  appean^d  to  have  beun  restored  at 
a  word.  He  trod  the  earth  as  if  he  were  not  of  the  eartli, 
he  threw  his  hat  airily  upon  the  side  of  his  head,  stepped 


THE  COINER.  SS7 

on  his  toes,  and  with  gay  and  expanding  bosom  clian'eJ 
(in  a  manner  which  sounded  to  liis  own  ears  extieinely 
loud,  articulate,  and  musical,  but  which  in  those  ut  an  un- 
prejudiced listener  appeared  remarkable  for  the  u  regularity 
of  its  cadences,  the  unreasonable  vehemence  of  an  occasional 
bar,  and  a  general  tendency  in  the  pronunciation  of  the 
words  to  dispense  altogether  with  the  use  of  consonants) — ■ 
chanted,  we  say — a  recollected  stanza  of  the  famous  national 
air: 

"  He  that  goes  to  bed,  and  goes  to  bed  mellow, 

Lives  as  he  ought  to  do, 

Lives  as  he  ought  to  do, 
Lives  as  he  ought  to  do,  and  dies  aa  honest  fellow.*' 

He  was  in  the  act  of  ascending  a  slight  acclivity  covered 
with  furze  bushes,  through  which  the  pathway  winded, 
when  a  heavy  panting,  and  a  sound  of  footsteps  in  rapid 
pursuit,  alarmed,  and  made  him  turn  round.  He  beheld, 
in  the  clear  moonlight,  not  more  than  three  yards  from  the 
spot  on  which  he  stood,  the  figure  of  his  enemy  in  the  act 
of  rushing  upon  him,  while  the  pautings  of  his  weariness 
were  mingled  with  a  horrible  half-suppressed  laugh  of  ecs- 
tatic expectation.  The  light  shone  full  upon  his  counte- 
nance. It  was  wasted  almost  to  the  very  skeleton,  the  eyes 
were  distended  and  protruding  to  an  unnatural  degree,  and 
the  thin  lips  were  dragged  back  by  the  ghastly  smile,  so  as 
to  expose  the  teeth  which  were  fast  clenched,  half  in  rage, 
half  in  triumph.  The  sight  instantly  and  perfectly  sobered 
poor  Segur.  Uttering  a  low  cry  of  horror,  he  clasped  his 
hands  above  the  head,  and  fled  down  the  hill  with  the  speed 
of  winged  Fear  itself,  in  the  direction  of  the  mill.  It  lay 
at  a  considerable  distance  from  the  spot,  and  the  poor  sickly 
wretch's  heart  sunk  within  him  when  he  recollected,  even 
in  the  extremity  of  his  affright,  the  reputation  for  agility  as 
well  as  strength  which  the  youth  had  obtained  in  his  nei"'h- 
bourhood.  But  the  latter  was  no  longer  the  man  he  had 
i>..i;ii  m  those  days.     Famine,  disease,  and  anguish  of  mind 


288  suii.  DHuv, 

ai)il  frame  had  f;iptenecl  upon  liim,  and  reduced  his  personal 
vigour  Eicarly  to  the  same  level  with  that  of  his  intended 
victim.  Fear,  moreover,  is  perhaps  a  fleeter  passion  than 
revenge,  and  Scgur  did  not  speedily  lose  the  advantage 
which  he  had  at  the  outset.  His  pursuer  Avas  so  close  upon 
his  track  that  he  sometimes  felt  his  fingers  upon  his  shoul- 
ders, but  the  slight  touch  operated  with  an  electrical  influ- 
ence upon  his  frame,  infusing  new  and  sudden  vigour  into 
his  limbs,  and  enabling  him  for  a  moment  to  place  a  wider 
distance  than  before  between  his  enemy  and  himself.  Lights 
were  seen  still  burning  in  the  Avindows  of  the  mill  as  they 
approached,  and  the  broad  door  stood  invitingly  open  at 
the  distance  of  a  few  hundred  yards,  while  several  figures 
passed  to  and  fro  in  the  interior,  fully  revealed  in  tlie  strong 
light.  Both  noAv  made  a  desperate  effort — Segur,  cheered 
by  the  prospect  of  succour — his  pursuer,  maddened  by  the  ap- 
prehension of  losing  this  single  opportunity  of  vengeance. 
Putting,  therefore,  to  its  extremcst  trial  a  frame  into  which 
a  morsel  of  food  had  not  entered  for  the  last  two  days,  he 
closed  on  the  frightened  Palatine  just  as  he  gained  the  door- 
way— fixed  his  fingers  on  his  throat,  and  staggered  with 
his  prey  into  the  centre  of  the  mill  house.  Half  suffocated 
by  the  pi'cssure  of  his  neck,  the  latter  could  only  give  vent 
to  a  low  and  gurgling  sound,  and  extend  his  arms  for  aid 
towards  the  astonished  workmen.  The  desperate  youth 
endeavoured  to  drag  him  toward  that  part  of  the  room 
where  the  great  machine  was  performing  its  rapid  and  gi- 
gantic evolutions — but  his  strength  failed  him — the  strug- 
gles of  his  victim  Avere  sufticient  to  baflle  his  efiorts  until 
the  workmen  rescued  him  from  the  death-grasp — when  ex- 
tending his  fingers  in  a  feeble  and  delirious  effort  to  renew 
the  hold  which  he  had  been  compelled  to  relinquish,  he 
fell  forward  on  the  earthen  floor  in  a  state  of  utlcr  exhauS" 
tion. 

A  f(W  days  after  this  aLhcnture,  while  the  young  maJi 
V, as  still  confined  to  a  sick  led  in  the  neighbourhooJ,  hy 


THE  COINEh.  289 

the  cotiscqnoTices  of  the  dreadful  exertion  of  body  and  mind 
■which  he  Iiad  undergone ;  and  while  the  object  of  his  hate 
still  continued  half  bewildered  by  the  recollection  of  the 
hair-brcndth  escape  he  had  experienced,  a  foir  arab.issadress 
arrived  on  the  part  of  the  latter.  It  was  a  long  time  since 
the  youth  had  seen  Sally  Segnr,  with  her  light  straw  hat 
tied  simply  under  her  small  chin — her  gentle  soft  eyes,  and 
blooming,  healthful  countenance — her  light  and  neatly  at- 
tired figure,  so  characteristic  in  all  its  details  of  cottage 
peace  and  comfort — and  the  sight  aiFccted  him  more  deeply 
than  he  imagined  anything  could  have  done.  It  was  not 
that  his  love  for  her  was  at  any  time  of  a  deep  or  ardent 
nature — on  the  contrary,  he  had  been  suspected  by  some 
few  individuals  of  being  visionary  enough  to  entertain  such, 
a  sentiment  towards  a  young  person,  far  his  superior  in 
rank  and  endowments,  v.ho  had  once  condescended  to  hon- 
our him  with  her  hand  at  a  village  merry-making,  but  be 
had  regarded  Sally  with  feelings  of  affection  notwithstand- 
ing, and  her  appearance  now,  unexpected  as  it  was,  sud- 
denly threw  him  back  upon  the  memory  of  happier  days, 
and  overpowered  him  with  the  anguish  of  the  retrospection. 
It  was  long,  too,  since  Sally  had  seen  her  old  lover,  but  all 
that  she  had  heard,  and  all  that  she  could  imagine,  was  in- 
sufficient to  prepare  her  for  the  shocking,alteration  which 
he  had  undergone.  She  i-eached  him  her  hand,  and  turning 
in  dismay  and  agony  from  the  wild  and  sepulchral  stare 
which  he  fixed  upon  her,  sunk  with  a  burst  of  tears  into  a 
chair  at  the  bed-side. 

All  that  the  eloquence  of  passion,  and  of  virtuous  en- 
thusiasm, all  that  youth,  beauty,  and  suppliant  tears  could 
do  to  move  him  from  his  purpose  of  revenge,  was  done  by 
the  affectionate  girl.  She  bade  him  remember  their  former 
friendship — modestly  urged  her  own  sufferings  and  truth — 
and  conjured  him,  for  his  sake  and  hers,  to  forget  what  was 
past,  and  wait  patiently  for  a  time  of  happiness  that  was 
sure  to  come.  He  heard  her  without  arguaieut  or  acqaies- 
13 


290  SUIL  DHUV, 

C3nce,  and  suffered  her  to  depart  with  the  conviction  that 
she  had  prevailed  nothing. 

Her  visits  were  frequently  renewed,  as  the  convalescon-t 
began  to  improve  in  health  and  spirits.  She  had,  nnfortii- 
nately,  at  length  an  opportunity  of  strengthening  her  plea 
by  tlie  intelligence  that  her  uncle  and  guardian,  whose 
nerves  had  been  completely  shattered  by  this  last  shock, 
had  on  that  morning,  when  all  the  world  arose  to  the  en- 
joyment of  light  and  mirth,  awoke  to  the  dreariness  of  an 
eternal  night — he  had  been  struck  with  blindness. 

The  news  gave  no  pleasure  to  his  enemy.  He  appeared 
even  to  regret  a  misfortune  which  had  not  proceeded  from 
his  own  hand,  and  in  the  prosecution  of  what  he  considered 
hi?  just  revenge,  but  he  could  not  altogetlicr  appear  insen- 
sible to  the  anguish  of  the  gentle  mediator.  He  took  re- 
Tuge  from  her  entreaties  in  counter  solicitations — urged,  as 
slie  had  done,  their  ancient  vows,  and  stipulated  as  a  con- 
dition by  which  his  amity,  or  rather  his  inditference,  was 
to  be  purcliased — that  Sally  should  at  once  consent  to  have 
those  vows  accomplished,  and  accompany  him  to  a  distant 
part  of  the  country.  He  met,  as  in  all  probability  he  had 
himself  anticipated,  a  direct,  though  not  an  indignant  i-e- 
fusal  ;  but  the  young  maiden  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to 
avoid  his  society,  while  she  persevered  in  the  observance  of 
what  she  was  taught  to  consider  her  duty. 

Again  the  evil  spirit  appeared  to  have  taken  possession 
of  the  soul  of  the  young  man.  Finding  that  he  could  not 
prevail  on  his  love  to  sacrifice  to  him  her  obedience  to  her 
parent,  whom  she  both  loved  and  feared,  with  an  intensity 
only  inferior  to  that  whicli  she  felt  for  the  youth  himself,  he 
overwhelmed  her  witli  rrproaches,  renewed  his  protestations 
of  vengeance,  and  left  her  half  dead  with  grief  and  fear. 
Several  months  rolled  on,  and  nothing  more  was  heard  of 
him  in  the  neighbourhood.  Divers  reports  then  got  into 
circulatiou  ;  it  was  asserted  by  some  that  he  had  joined  the 
smuiijgkrs  on  the  western  coast — by  others,  that  he  had 


THE  COINER.  291 

enlisted  nndor  the  banners  of  the  successor  of  the  notorions 
Kedmond  O'Hanlon  (the  Robin  Hood  of  his  time  and  country) 
and  his  mates — while  a  few  were  found  to  say  that  he  had  se- 
lected the  more  lionourable  and  legitimate  standard  of  his  law- 
ful sovereign.  Nothing  certain,  however,  was  learned  of  his 
proceedings,  and  in  some  time  further  his  name  appeared  to 
have  been  forgotten.  Sally,  in  tlie  meantime,  had  greater 
difficulty  in  reconciling  herself  to  this  his  last  desertion  of 
her  than  to  the  former — for,  in  the  unresisted  intercourse 
which  subsisted  between  them,  the  passion  which  she  in- 
dulged had  become  more  firmly  rooted  in  her  heart  than 
ever. 

It  was  an  unfortunate  circumstance  for  her,  likewise, 
that  her  uncle's  misfortune  prevented  him  from  exercising 
that  rigid  surveillance  over  her  motions,  which  might  be 
necessary  to  the  prudent  government  of  a  young  maiden 
of  her  rank,  gifted  with  spirits  so  light  and  heedless,  and 
feelings  so  deep  and  susceptible  as  hers.  She  contracted  3 
greater  number  of  intimacies  among  the  girls  of  her  owi\ 
rank  in  the  neighboin-hood,  than  was  in  accordance  with  the 
injunctions  of  her  rigid  father — frequented  their  houses — ■ 
pastimes — nnd  festive  assemblies — furnishing,  on  those  oc- 
casions, when  she  happened  to  be  detained  from  home  for 
an  unusual  length  of  time,  such  excuses  as  were  likely  to 
satisfy  her  querulous  old  guardian. 

Considerable  agitation  was  produced  in  the  adjacent  vil- 
lage, by  the  appearance,  one  Sunday  morning,  of  a  placard, 
nailed  against  the  trunk  of  an  old  elder  tree  in  the  chapel- 
yard,  written  in  characters  which  the  schoolmaster  declared, 
with  a  c'junten  ince  of  deep  and  serious  reproof,  he  could 
compare  to  nothing  more  intelligible  than  "  the  scratcheu 
of  a  b  intam-cock  in  a  hape  0'  sand" — and  stating  that 
Mr.  O'Flanagan,  travelling  dancing-master,  would  give  les- 
sons during  the  ensuing  fortnight  at  Davy  Dogherty's  baru, 
at  tlie  low  rate  of  two  skilleens*  and  a  testerf  the  \\?ek— 
•  Shillings.  f  Sixpence. 


292  SUIL  DHUV, 

(precisely  wnst  the  villaije  I  ionysius  aforesaid,  as  lie  him- 
self declared  in  terms  ol  high  indignation,  charged  i'or  a 
whole  quarter's  instruction  in  the  rudiments  of  general 
learning;  marvelling  deeply  in  what  consisted  this  superior 
impoitance  of  the  heels  above  the  head,  unless  it  originated 
in  people's  conceit  and  vanity) — the  said  handbill  moi'cover 
announcing  that  the  Meek's  lesson  would  be  concluded  by 
a  ball — tickets,  including  a  tumbler  o'  punch,  ten-pence — - 
gentleman  taking  a  ticket,  allowed  to  trate  a  lady,  &c.,  &c. 
■ — and  concluding,  as  it  has  been  maliciously,  and  we  be- 
lieve falsely  asserted,  with  a  request  that  "  no  gentleman 
would  come  without  shoes  and  stockings." 

The  inhabitants  of  an  Irish  village  must  be  reduced  very 
low  indeed,  when  a  call,  such  as  that  just  mentioned,  is  suf- 
fered to  pass  away  unheeded  and  unanswered.  The  Albert 
of  the  bogs  had  many  pupils — and  before  the  evening  of 
the  "  ball"  arrived,  he  had  disposed,  on  his  own  terms,  of 
nearly  twice  as  many  tickets  as  the  barn  could  hold. 

Sally  was  ignorant  of  the  village  etiquette  which  pre- 
sumed that  no  "  lady"  would  appear  among  the  belles  of  the 
evening,  who  had  not  been  "  trated"  by  a  "  gentleman" — 
Dtherwise,  as  she  would  have  allowed  no  cAa/Jej'o??,  she  must 
have  remained,  much  against  her  own  inclination,  in  her  own 
house.  She  hesitated  not  therefore  to  indulge  the  strong 
curiosity  which  she  felt  to  witness  the  village  festivity,  aa;d 
having  provided  herself  with  the  master  key  of  all  public 
amusements,  she  stole  away  from  her  uncle's  side,  and  joined 
a  motherly  female  acquaintance,  who  was  proceeding  to  the 
"dance-house" to  ascertain  the  progressmadeduring  the  pre- 
ceding week  by  a  hopeful,  sleek-headed  "•  boy  of  her  own." 
lliey  arrived,  fortunately  for  Sully,  as  she  thereby  avoided 
the  sneers  and  whispers  of  those  more  fortunate  maidens, 
whose  attractions  had  procured  them  the  protection  of  cicis- 
beos,  some  time  before  the  ball  opened,  and  while  the  greater 
y  Jrtion  of  places  were  yet  unoccupied. 

2lr.  O'Flauagau  received  Uiem,  violin  in  hand,  at  the  door 


THE  COINER.  293 

of  tlie  bnrn,  or  asscmlily  room  (as  it  had  the  hoiionr  of  fiil- 
iiig  that  oflice  tl;is  evening) — f1o?cnbecl  a  flourish  with  his 
bow  in  the  air,  and  then  lowered  it  sniartl}^  to  the  ground — 
drevv  liis  heels  gracefully  into  the  first  position,  turned  out 
his  toes  like  Sir  Christoplier  Houghton  in  the  Critic,  and 
completed  the  ceremony  of  reception  with  a  bow  ^Ahich  waa 
evidently  intended  as  a  pattern  for  all  the  male  spectators 
■ — lowering  his  head  until  the  queue  of  his  peri\\ig  (a  fash- 
ionable article  of  dress  which  added  materially  to  his  impor- 
tance in  this  region  of  shock  heads)  arose,  and  culminated 
to  the  zenith.  He  then  marshalled  the  ladies  to  their  seats 
on  one  of  the  forms  Avhich  were  ranged  along  the  walls  for 
the  accommodation  of  tlie  guests — and  whicb  was  strewed 
Viith  fresh  rushes,  in  order  to  afford  a  "  saft  sate"  for  the 
gentlesex — whilehe  proceeded  to  putthe  youngpupil  through 
his  evolutions. 

"  A  very  fine  boy,  indeed,  ma'am — if  he  had  only  a  little 
polish.  Now,  sir,  spring  up  off  o'  the  ball  o'  your  futt,  an 
come  down  in  the  third  position.  Very  good.  Hold  up 
your  head,  sir, — no  fear  yoiiv  feet  will  run  away  from  you 
vhile  you  Match  them  so  close — keep  in  your  tongue,  sir, — 
there's  a  handle  o'  your  tongue  thrus-t  out,  as  if  that  would 
be  any  use  to  you  in  the  step.  Now — one — two — three — 
very  good,"  &c.,  &c.,  &c. 

The  company  soon  began  to  thicken,  and  in  a  little  time 
complaints  began  to  arise  of  the  scantiness  of  room,  which 
were  ingeniously  obviated  by  arranging  a  few  forms  in  the 
open  air — and  preparing  a  second  dancing  area  in  the  bright 
moonlight,  the  master  of  the  ceremonies  canfully  dividing 
his  time  and  attention  between  the  guests  within  and  those 
without,  so  that  neither  party  might  complain  of  a  deficiency 
in  this  respect.  The  hitter  were  accomracdated  with  the 
violin  of  the  dancing-master  himself,  while  the  company  within 
nceived  sufficient  reason  for  dancing  from  a  long  and  lean 
piper  wlio  had  been  hired  for  the  evening  as  an  assistant  in 
the  orchestral  departaieut. 


294  siriL  Dntrv, 

The  bnll  oponsrl  with  a  most  tovtunns  dnnoe  called  the 
Ecel  ot  Tliree — \vhic!i,  however  scientific,  did  not  fully 
satisfy  the  longings  of  the  vnercnrial  spectator-:,  whose  met- 
tlesome heels  were  eager  for  livelier  oper.itions.  For  some 
time  no  occurrence  took  place  to  disturb  the  gravity  and 
decorum  which  prevailed  in  the  asseniblv,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  an  awkward  blunder  made  by  Sally,  who  during  a 
pause  in  the  nsusic  leaned  back  unwittingly  on  the  piper's 
unexhausted  bag,  from  which  procee('e(l  a  squeal  so  mourn- 
ful and  so  like  the  remonstrance  of  ?.  living  creatm-e  in  pain, 
as  convulsed  the  hearers  v.'ith  laughter,  and  covered  our  poor 
heroine  with  confusion.  Soon  after,  while  the  floor  was  again 
clear,  and  the  gentlemen  were  plying  their  fair  ones  with  agree- 
able attentions  in  variouG  parts  ot  the  room,  the  piper  seein<^ 
Sally  disengaged,  and  perhaps  willing  to  shovv  that  he  har- 
boured no  malice,  danced  up  to  her,  throwing  the  drone  i,p 
over  his  left  shoulder,  playing  a  rapid  jig  tune,  and  capering 
away  with  a  pair  of  enormously  long  legs,  looking — in  his 
close  cropped  head,  black  worsted  stockings,  torn  biue  jacket, 
tight  pantaloons,  and  red  woollen  cravat  or  comforter — 
more  like  the  ideal  of  an  evil  genius  than  any  thing  human. 
When  Sally  cheerfully  danced  forward,  amid  the  shouts  of 
delight  and  approbation  which  broke  from  the  assembly, 
her  strange  partner  retired  to  the  centre  of  the  floor,  where 
he  continued  to  time  his  own  music,  nowprunding  the  earth 
like  a  pavier's  rammer,  now  flying  from  side  to  side,  as  if 
he  trod  on  air,  and  anon  remaining  to  grind  the  floor  in  one 
spot,  throwing  back  his  head,  and  moving  it  from  one  side 
to  another  with  a  certain  ravished  air.  Thi  guests  gradu- 
ally gathered  around  the  danci-rs,  following,  with  eyes  and 
mouth  distended  to  ecstatic  admiration,  the  feet  of  the  ex- 
traordinary piper,  and  unable  to  rej/ress  a  cheering  shout  t4 
rapture  when,  by  a  fresh  wild  bound,  he  seemed  to  recover 
all  his  former  vigour  as  last  as  it  was  exhausted.  The  conta- 
gion at  !eng;h  spread — the  floor  was  covered  with  emulitivt» 
groups,  and  the  daucin^-master'o  genteel  reels  and  figures 


THE  COINER.  293 

WJ'-e  all  merged  into  the  national  and  inspiring  monnieen. 
Overpowered  with  fatigue,  Sally  at  length  i)cruutted  her>elf 
to  be  danced  and  played  to  her  seat  by  the  piyier,  who  whis- 
pered in  her  ear  as  she  turned  to  sit  down — •'  There's  one 
you  know  \a  aiten  for  you  in  the  sally-grove,  Miss." 

The  words  Mere  ahnost  inaudible,  but  such  as  they  were 
they  made  Sally  start  and  look  up  suddtnly.  The  speaker 
was  already  in  his  former  place,  playing  on,  and  directing 
his  attention  to  the  dancers.  She  imagined  either  that  licr 
senses  deceived  her  or  that  the  words  were  addressed  to 
some  other  person. 

The  dancing  and  music  proceeded  with  no  less  enthu- 
siasm on  the  green  plot  without.  Longing  to  breathe  the 
cool  night  wind,  atter  her  exertions  in  the  house,  Sally 
Avalked  to  the  door,  and,  leaning  against  the  jamb,  contem- 
plated the  motions  of  the  dancers  in  the  moonlight.  While 
she  remained  in  this  position,  tlie  name  of  her  old  lover, 
Macnamara,  pronounced  by  some  one  of  a  group  of  persons 
■who  occupied  a  seat  near  the  door,  caught  her  ear. 

"And  did  you  hear,"  said  one,  "how  Miss  Byrne  her- 
self was  getten  on  ?" 

'"She  never  '11  get  over  it,"  repli:  d  a  middle- agid 
■woman.  "  I  spoke  to-day  with  James  Mihil,  tlieir  ser\  ant- 
boy,  an'  he  toult  me  himself  that  she  was  getten  worse 
and  worse  every  day.  It  seems  the  match  is  bro.^e 
ott"  out  an'  out  betune  herself  and  Mr.  Robert  Kumba,  a 
kind-hearted  boy  he  is  too,  indeed,  but  not  over  and  above 
knowing.  She  never  was  heard  to  screech  or  cry  afti  r  her 
father's  death,  an'  that's  a  bad  sign,  for  the  silent  gi  ief  is 
always  that  that  lies  heavy  on  the  heart  an'  breaks  it." 

"  I'd  be  torry  anything  should  happen  her,"  said  one  oi 
the  hearers.  "  bhe  was  a  good,  sweet-tempeied  young  lady, 
an'  a  nice  dancer.  Did  you  mind  her  the  day  she  danced 
with  Diuny  Macnamara,  that  tiicy  say  is  listed  since,  afi 
the  May  pole  i"' 

"  1    did,"  replied   a  young   man,    who  had  just  been 


I 


IT 


29 G  suiL  Diiuv, 

dnncecl  out  of  his  plnce,  "  .iu'  it  you'll  b'lie'  me,  I  didn't 
think  so  much  of  her.  She  trod  so  hght,  there  wasn't 
hardly  a  blade  o'  the  ;^'rass  turned  under  her.  Not  so  with 
Dinny,  I'll  be  bail.  That  was  the  boy  for  pounden  !  'I  cm 
place  was  as  if  a  pig  had  been  rooten  it  after  him." 

"  They  say  Diuny  Macnauiara  was  taken  with  her  him- 
self after  that,  in  spite  of  all  that  come  and  went  betweeu 
him  and  Sally  Segur,  the  Palatine's  daughter,  over " 

A  sudden  "  husht !"  and  a  low  murmur  which  passed 
among  the  group  of  gossips  informed  our  heroine  that  her 
proximity  was  discovered,  and  she  retired  a  little  farther 
in,  continuing  to  fix  her  eyes  on  the  dancers  ^^ithout, 
where  a  new  spectacle  had  caught  her  attention. 

This  was  a  young  man,  much  better  dressed  than  the 
remainder  of  the  company,  who  had  not  made  his  appear- 
ance in  the  interior  of  tlie  house,  and  who  seemed  anxious 
to  partake  of  the  amusements  that  Avere  going  forn  ard  as 
fieely  as  it  was  possible  to  do  without  exposing  himself,  in 
any  remarkable  degree,  to  observation.  In  a  short  time, 
as  he  turned  round  and  approached  her,  so  that  the  glare 
of  liglit  from  the  open  door  fell  on  his  features,  her  lieai  t 
bounded  at  the  sight  of  her  lover,  once  more  restored  to 
h'alth  and  bloom";  and  apparently  eijoying  a  degree  et 
i  fHucnce  to  which  he  had  never  at  any  time  been  accus- 
tomed. 

"■  is  it  you,  Denny  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  whisper. 

"  llu&ht  I"  replied  the  man  ;  "  that  is  not  my  name 
now,  Sally.  I'm  going  to  the  little  grove,  beyond,  and  do 
you  follow  me  in  a  little  time,  for  I  want  to  speak  to 
you." 

He  disappeared,  leaving  the  astonishment  and  curiosHy 
of  the  girl  excited  in  the  hi- best  degree.  She  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  give  him  the  meeiing  as  he  requested. 

Soon  after  she  had  left  die  dance-house,  tlie  mirth  of  the 
evening  became  more  uproarious  tiian  cvur,  until  it  seemed 
Ukely  to  terniinate  as  Irish   fesUA  ilies   frequently  do,  in  a 


THE  COINER.  297 

general  ensjagement  of  a  serious  nature.  The  syniptomg 
began,  as  usual,  in  vehement  protestations  of  eternal  friend- 
ship, after  ■\\-hich  a  few  blows  were  given  in  pure  love,  and 
gratefully  returned  with  good  interest,  until,  at  length, 
tlieir  excited  affections  began  to  be  demonstrated  in  a  series 
of  kicks  and  fistycuffs,  which  a  stranger  might  mistake 
for  indications  of  earnest  resentment.  The  men  hulioocd 
and  fought — the  girls  screamed  and  fled — the  dancing- 
master  himself,  interfering  to  keep  the  peace,  received  an 
unmerciful  drubbing,  which  prevented  him  from  renewing 
the  exercise  of  his  profession  for  some  •\\eeks,  and  the 
sounds  of  rage,  wailing,  and  lamentation  terminated  an 
evening  which  had  been  devoted,  by  common  consent,  to 
purposes  of  mirth  and  harmony.  A  few  were  killed  (tliat 
is,  severely  beaten),  many  wounded  ;  but  the  list  of  "  miss- 
ing" on  the  next  morning  was  found  to  be  confined  to 
Sally.     She  was  seen  no  more  in  her  native  village. 

We  now  feel  it  necessary  to  return  to  our  travellers, 
whom  we  deserted,  for  the  purpose  of  laying  these  details 
before  the  reader,  in  the  second  chapter. 

After  riding  about  two  miles  farther  on  a  narrow,  broken 
road,  leading  through  a  tract  of  alternate  crag  and  marsh, 
or  bog — daring  the  progress  of  which  Segui-  gave  his  old 
companion,  the  only  old  acquaintance  whom  he  had  met 
since  his  return,  the  principal  f  icts  of  the  detail  with  which 
I  have  just  furnished  the  reader — the  travellers,  m  idc 
anxious  by  the  fall  of  the  first  shades  of  evening,  sought  to 
obtain  farther  information  as  to  the  proximity  of  their  des- 
tination. As  they  looked  round  them  for  some  person 
from  whom  they  might  make  the  necessary  inquiries,  a 
stout,  wild-haired  svench  jumped  on  the  road  from  a  stile 
leading  to  a  little  avenue,  along  which  she  had  be?n  run- 
ning towards  them,  and  dropping  a  short  courtesy,  was 
abijut  to  pass  on,  when  the  Palatine  put  a  switch  before 
her,  and  made  his  question  with  as  nmch  civility  as  he 
could  muster.     She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  at 

13* 


298  SUIL  THUV, 

his  fat  companion,  then  at  the  comically  shaped  attendant, 
shook  back  her  thick  and  greasy  hair,  so  as  to  disclose  a 
countenance  that  showed  at  least  a  week's  abstinence  from 
the  luxury  of  an  ablution,  and  curled  her  dark  and  har- 
dened lip  into  an  expression  of  the  most  forcible  contempt, 
after  which,  without  answering  the  question,  she  tuckcd^np 
her  stuff  gown,  so  as  to  disclose  an  enormous  unstockinged 
ankle,  and  making  a  short  run  at  the  fence  on  the  road- 
side, jumped,  with  considerable  agihty,  on  the  top,  where 
she  waved  her  huge  arm  above  her  head,  and  shouted,  at 
the  top  of  a  shrill  sojirano  voice — "  Hoo  ee  ! — Shane, 
Dick,  Davy,  Ned,  and  8hamus,  come  in  to  the  pzaties — • 
Hoo-eel" 

The  men  to  whom  this  welcome  exhortation  was  ad- 
dressed, M  ere  at  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant  at  least.  Per- 
ceiving them  depositing  their  spades  in  the  furrows,  the 
(air  herald  drew  an  enormous  reeking  cup  [[jotato]  from 
her  own  piuned-np  stuff  petticoat,  and  seating  herself  down 
on  the  fence,  condescended  to  notice  the  individuals  of  the 
despicable  race  of  Falentins,  who  stood  waiting  her  leisure, 
half  amused,  half  irritated  : — 

"  How  far  are  we  from  the  village  of  Court  ilattrcss,  ray 
good  girl  :"" 

Another  pause  ensued  before  the  reply  (as  usual,  a 
counter  interrogation)  could  be  elicitc  d  : — 

**Ti  u't  aistvviir  is  from  behind  ye're  coineu?" 

Segur  explain,  d. 

"  \Vliy  then.  Court  Mattress  is  twenty  long  mile  from 
ye  ylt,  every  spade  o'  the  road." 

The  preacher  and  the  layman  interchanged  a  glance  o( 
surprise  and  disappointment. 

''■  Our  jiiuiney  is  lengthening  then  as  we  lessen  it,  for  we 
have  travelled  two  miles  since  it  was  only  fifteen." 

*'  fcLere  scvijxr  fugiadaii  Italiavi"  said  a  voice  close 
lehiud  them.  Segur  turned,  and  beheld  a  thin-faced  lad, 
bra  less  and  shoeless,  a  ragged  coat,  surmounting  a  still  more 


THt  COINER.  SOS 

patched  and  racrged  under-costume,  and  a  leaflicr  covered 
ink-bottle  dangling  by  a  strap  from  the  only  button  he  was 
master  of.  "  Tace^-piiella  viea,  whisht!  howl,*  you  jade 
— why  mislead  the  gintlemin?" 

"A  pretty  fellow  you  are,  indeed,  to  hope  for  any  luck, 
an*  yort  here  directen  the  Palontins. 

"  IJarharitable  being,"  said  Mr.  Shine,  "the  Samaritan 
inquired  not  the  creed  nor  the  country  of  him  whose  wounds 
he  dressed  by  the  wayside." 

"  Faix,  I  meant  no  harm,"  said  the  girl.  "  Av  ye  take 
the  long  and  the  safe  road,  ye'U  find  it's  twenty  good  miics, 
every  wattle  of  it ;  but  to  be  sure,  an'  ye  like  to  fall  in  with 
the  highwaymen  (the  plundherers,  that  are  murtheren  the 
country),  ye  may  take  the  short  cut  across  by  Mark  Spel- 
jacy's  iuu,  on  the  common,  an'  ye'U  shorten  the  way  four 
miles." 

"  It  is  worth  trying,"  said  Segur. 

"Who  toult  you  dat  the  highwaymen  was  out,  now?" 
inquired  the  thin-faced  lad,  bending  a  sharp  look  on  the 
girl. 

"Who  toult  me,  inagh?  Wasn't  it  themselves,  with 
Suil  Dhuv  at  their  head,  that  shot  Segur  in  the  glyn,.  there 
isn't  hardly  a  fortnight  there  seiice." 

The  old  Palatine  bent  forward  on  the  neck  of  his  horse, 
and  repeated  the  name  in  a  low  and  anxious  whisper,  as  if 
to  assure  himself  of  the  reality  of  what  he  heard. 

'"Iss,  thin,  Sc'Tur, — the  Palentin,  the  blind  man  that 
was  returnen  by  the  glyn  from  the  pattern,  and  was  shot 
through  the  head  upon  the  haith,  nobody  knows  for  what, 
nor  for  why,  only  them  that  done  it." 

"It  is  no  matter,"  said  the  old  man,  who  had  recovered 
his  self-possession  during  the  last  speech — "  I  am  well  pro- 
vided against  such  accidents,  and  I  will  take  the  short  way, 
Switze-r!  ride  close  behind  us — J\Ir.  Shine,  come,  dash  on, 
man — I'd  like  to  know  what  we  have  to  learn  next." 
*  Hold!  -be  silent. 


1 


300  SUIL  DHUV, 

"  It  is  a  tempting  of  Providence,"  muttered  the  reluc- 
tant Sliinp. 

"  Dere's  enoogh  o'  de  daylight  before  ye  yet  if  ye  stir,'' 
said  tlie  poor  scholar.      "  Af  ye'd  want  a  guide  across  tlie 

common "  he  concluded  the  sentence   by  a  significant 

gesture,  and  shuffling  of  the  feet,  which  was  readily  under- 
stood. 

"  We  intend  to  ride  hard,  and  you  have  no  horse,"  said 
the  Palatine. 

' '  0  never  let  dat  trouble  your  hononr,  dere's  many  a 
worse  roadster  than  old  Shanks'  mare."  And  throwing 
himself  into  an  easy  flinging  trot,  he  dashed  forward  at  a 
rate  that  showed  he  had  some  ground  for  his  confidence. 
The  three  travellers  followed  at  a  brisk  rate.  Doctor 
Shine,  whose  condition  showed  that  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  regular  hours  and  comfortable  living,  did  not  at  all  ap- 
prove of  the  sudden  and  seemingly  hazardous  resolution 
formed  by  his  companion.  They  had  been  trdvelling  to- 
gether for  more  than  eight  hours,  having  falkn  upon  one 
another  accidentally  at  the  inn  where  the  worthy  self-con- 
stituted ecclesiastic  stopped  to  breakftist.  The  doulile  duties 
of  lunch  and  dinner,  neither  of  which  this  conscientious  di- 
vine would  have  very  willingly  neglected,  remained  yet  un- 
discharged, and  he  felt  exceedingly  reluctant  to  prolong  the 
season  of  abstinence  if  by  any  contrivance  it  could  be  ter- 
minated. No  means  of  doing  so,  however,  appeared  likely 
to  present  themselves  in  the  dreary  tracts  of  soil  over  whicli 
they  were  now  journeying;  and  the  tone  of  feeling  inlo 
•which  the  last  conversation  had  thrown  his  friend,  was  such 
as  to  make  him  altogether  oblivious  of  his  own,  as  well  as 
of  the  doctor's  necessities  in  this  respect.  All  the  sympathy 
of  which  he  could  confidently  assure  himself,  was  such  as 
Abie  Switzer,  the  queer-shaped  servant  of  the  Palatine,  and 
their  horses  afforded.  The  perils,  too,  of  another  and  darker 
natiu-e  which  belonged  to  the  route  they  were  pursuing,  and 
which  becaaie  invested  in  the  mind  of  the  man  of  peace 


TH^  COINER.  SOI 

wifli  gradr.nl'v  (Tppppriiifi:  linos  of  terror,  in  proportion  n- 
tlie  sliades  ot  evening  advanced — and  the  road,  migiiardcd 
by  ditcli  or  dyke,  began  to  assume  a  still  more  rugged  raid 
unfrequented  appearance,  as  it  wound  among  a  series  of 
black,  craggy,  and  close  set  liillocks,  covered  only  in  a  few 
places  with  the  tufts  of  broom  and  brushwood — the  dangers, 
we  repeat,  of  every  description,  which  now  became  more 
strikingly  evident,  afforded  new  grounds  of  reluctance  to 
the  unadventurous  Shine.  Nevertheless  he  proceeded  for  a 
lime  in  silence,  judging  that  a  proposal  of  delay  originating 
in  merely  sensual  or  carnal  motives  would  come  with  an  ill 
grace  from  a  mortitied  professor  of  religion  ;  and  he  even 
began  to  entertain  thoughts  of  a  martyr-like  perseverance 
in  the  purpose  laid  down  by  his  conspanion,  when  the  plans 
of  the  whole  party  were  couuteructed  by  a  resolution  of  the 
preacher's  little  puny. 

They  had  now  ariived  at  the  head  of  an  acclivity,  from 
Tfliich  a  somewhat  more  extended  tract  of  country  was 
visible  than  had  as  yet  been  afforded  them  by  the  nature 
of  the  laud  which  they  had  passed.  Immediately  before 
the  door  of  a  ])ublic-house,  which  formed  the  only  dwelling 
■within  sight,  the  road  divided  and  cast  off  on  both  sides 
of  a  steep  and  toilsome  ascent  (which  we  believe  is  one  of 
the  minor  national  evils  that  have  lately  been  removed  by 
the  English  benefaction  of  1822).  A  few  yards  from  this 
iunction  of  the  ways  stood  a  ruined  bridge,  which 'made 
but  "  two  paces  and  a  stride"  across  the  Ovaan,  or  the 
White  River — a  little  stream  so  called,  perhaps,  from  ifs 
waters  being  of  an  unusual  blackness,  owii)g  to  the  buggy 
ground  in  which  they  have  their  source.  The  inn,  which, 
as  is  customary,  went  by  the  name  of  its  owner  rather  than 
its  sign,  was  a  low  thatched  house,  with  a  witl.ered  branch 
and  sign  protruded  over  the  doorway.  One  side  of  the 
latter  presented  to  the  view  of  the  carman,  returning  with 
vehicle  uiiburthei  ed  and  groaning  pocket  from  the  nearest 
coru-market,  a  rosy-!aced,  weil-veal'jd,  full-length  portrait 


302  SUIL  DHUV, 

of  the  Patron  Saint  of  the  kingdom,  -n-ith  crook  hi  hanrl, 
and  extended  arms,  gesticidating  a  significant  welcome, 
made  still  more  significant  and  irresistible  by  tlie  following 
lines  scrawled  in  white  paint  underneath  : — 

Pass  You  Est 

or  Pass  you  West, 
pass  Spellacy's  Punch 

And  You  11  Pass  the  Best. 
Morgaii's  Entire. 

The  day-labourer,  who  with  spade  on  shoulder,  and  fore- 
head pale  and  moist  from  the  forenoon's  toil,  descended  tho 
hill  on  the  other  side,  had  his  admiration  excited  by  a 
fl  iming  battle  scene,  which  was  also  explained  underneath 
to  represent — 

[the  Storniiu  of  Dendermond  be  Mark  Spellacy's,  Good 
Beds.] 

And  if  abundance  of  smoke  and  fire  can  be  supposed  to 
compensate  for  the  absence  of  all  other  characteristics  of  a 
battle  scene,  the  artist  had  been  most  successful  iu  his  re« 
presentation  of  the  horrors  of  war. 

The  comparatively  comfortable  air  of  this  mountain 
hostelrie  soon  arrested  the  acute  and  experienced  eye  oi 
the  preacher ;  and  it  appeared,  too,  as  if  his  faithfid  pony 
shared  his  feelings,  for  as  soon  as  the  travellers  arrived 
opposite  the  feeding- trough,  which  was  placed  before  the 
doorway,  the  sturdy  little  animal,  to  the  great  delight  of 
its  master,  pulled  up,  and  remained  stock  still,  with  an  air 
of  determination  in  its  eye  which  was  sufficient  to  show 
that  no  inducement  whatever,  but  the  gratification  of  its 
desires,  would  be  able  to  influence  its  movements.  What 
those  desires  were  the  doctor  readily  perceived. 

"  The  creature,"  said  he,  "  has  been  accustomed  to  havo 
its  daih-  sustenance  administered  abjut  this  hour,  and  il;s 
bowels  yearn  for  the  usual  allowance." 

"  Dere's  good  lodgen  for  man  or  beast  at  Mark  Spel- 
lacy's," said  the  young  man. 


THE  COINER.  303 

The  P  ilatiiie  nrged  tlieir  rlepartnre. 

"  We  have  temptations  enough  to  strngf!;le  with,"  said 
Mr.  Shine  ;  "  we  pray  to  be  delivered  fi'om  them,  and  we 
ought  consequently  to  seize  every  opportunity  of  avoiding 
them  where  there  is  no  end  to  be  gained  by  exposing  our- 
selves to  their  influence.  Mechanical  modes  f-re  sometimes 
allowable  in  fitting  the  mind  for  successful  resistance  against 
the  assaults  of  the  Tempter." 

"  Manen,"  said  the  poor  scholar,  *'  that  a  good  dinner 
will  prepare  and  strengthen  a  man  for  the  spiritual  com- 
bat?" 

"The  Turks,"  continued  Mr.  Shine,  not  heeding  the 
query,  "  shout  from  tlie  top  of  a  minaret,  the  steeple  folk 
announce  the  word  by  claidiing  together  a  club  and  prodi- 
gious cylinder  of  metal,  even  the  great  advocates  of  self- 
denial,  the  papists,  administer  a  sensuous  stimulus  in  music  ; 
and  we  who  are  of  the  wiser  cluss  conceive  that  the  best 
possible  mode  of  preserving  a  Christian-like  evenness  of 
temper,  a  saint-like  indifference  to  the  operation  of  events 
around  us,  is  by  using  all  such  internal  and  external  appli- 
ances as  Heaven  has  furnished  us  with,  fur  the  purpose  of 
preventing  unprofitable  irritation.  And  that  such  has  been 
the  object  of  allotting  us  a  number  of  senses  capable  of  re- 
ceiving gratification  is  sufficiently  evid-ent ;  for,  what  were 
noses  made  for,  except  to  smell,  what  mouths  made  fur, 
except  to  eat?" 

"  Not  a  ha'p'orth,"  said  Abie  Switzer. 

"  Bari'en  to  drink  now  an'  den,"  said  the  foot-traveller. 
"  Soomthen  dat  way  mesclf  talks  when  I  owe  a  man  Ji 
grudge,  an'  see  a  fair  vacancy  for  giving  him  a  knock  on 
de  head.  What  were  fists  made  for,  except  to  strike?  says 
I.  I  wish  I  could  persuade  de  priest  of  it.  May  be  yuur 
honour  would  try  it  wit  him  ?" 

"  As  for  myself,"  s  dd  Abie,  "  I'm  abvays  most  patient 
after  dinner  or  a  good  hot  sapper,  an'  1  don't  care  who 
knows  it." 


304 


SUIL    DHUV, 


"  AnrI  for  TTip,"  rcpnn^ed  the  preacher,  "  1  see  not?iTnr» 
sliort  of  a  visible  tempting  ol  Providence  in  rejecting  a 
proffered  consolation.  Resides,  the  instinct  of  my  animal 
decides  against  any  further  postponement:  of  the  customary 
refection,  and  seems  to  agree  with  me,  that  to  proceed  on 
our  way  with  mortified  appetites  would  be  merely  a  monkish 
and  papistical  resolution." 

After  pausing  a  moment,  the  old  Palatine  dismounted  in 
silence,  and  led  his  horse  to  the  door  of  the  inn,  in  the 
manner  of  one  who  had  been  prevailed  upon  by  a  train  ot 
reflections  in  his  own  mind,  rather  than  by  the  reasoning 
of  the  self-ordained  divine.  The  most  convincing  argu- 
ment, perhaps,  which  the  latter  employed  might  be  indi- 
cated in  the  obstinacy  of  his  pony.  He  did  not  enter  the 
inn  until  he  had  seen  the  sturdy  animal  accommodated 
with  a  due  poition  of  oats,  wliich  he  tied  iu  a  bag  about 
its  head. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

From  oiir  infancy  we  have  some  ideas,  tliough  originally  intro- 
duced by  tlie  most  trifling  incidents,  wliicli  direct  us  during  tlie 
nhole  course  of  our  life,  and  iuspirerus  eitiier  nith  courage  or  cow- 
araice,  rasliness  or  superstition. 

Ganganelli's  Letters. 

Some  circumstances  having  taken  place  in  the  interior  ot 
the  inn,  a  few  hours  before,  with  which  it  may  be  useful 
that  the  reader  should  be  made  acquainted;  we  will  leave 
tlie  travellers  just  at  the  point  to  which  we  have  brought 
tliem  at  the  close  of  the  last  chapter,  for  the  purpose  of 
introducing  a  new  group  of  performers  on  the  scene. 

The  kitchen,  or  principal  apartment  of  the  house,  pre- 
sented modes  of  accommodation  by  no  means  usual  iualonely 
abode  of  this  class  among  the  highlands  of  Eriu.     Although, 


THE  COINER.  305 

fi'om  its  f?p!=prtorI  nnd  solitnry  position,  it  liad  appeared  im- 
possible tii;it  tiie  cliance  custom  of  passing  strangers  could 
constitute  a  very  considei-able  portion  of  the  landlord's  re- 
venue, and  the  distance  at  which  it  stood  from  anvthin^;- 
deserving  the  appellation  of  the  word  "  nerghbouriiood," 
seemed  to  form  snflicient  grounds  for  supposing  that  the 
permanent  customers  could  not  be  very  numerous  either — 
the  appearance,  nevertheless,  which  the  interior  presented 
was  not  such  as  to  estimate  any  lack  of  company.  It  was 
abundantly  though  plainly  supplied  with  articles  of  furni- 
ture, such  as  svgaan  chairs,  a  table,  settle-bed,  wooden 
dresser,  t\\Q  shelves  of  which  were  well  stocked  with  pewter 
dishes,  plates,  and  wooden  pi<j</ins,  or  drinking  vessels. 
The  rafters,  well  seasoned  by  the  influence  of  a  settled  cloud 
of  smoke,  were  graced  «ith  sundry  flitches,  hams,  and 
other  departments  of  bacon  which  were  visible  through  the 
bluish  mist,  and  from  the  many  fresh  indentures  observable 
to  the  glance,  gave  the  most  direct  negative  that  could  be 
wished  to  the  sneer  of  the  apostate  Goldsmith — or  proved, 
at  least,  that  this  was  not  one  of  the  "  Irish  houses  where 
things  are  so-so."  By  the  confused  and  rakish  manner  in 
which  all  the  furniture,  however,  was  tossed  about — a  chair 
lying  prostrate  in  one  corner — the  table  pushed  awry,  and 
strewed  with  drinking  vessels,  which  appeared  not  to  have 
been  meddled  with  since  they  had  fallen  from  the  impotent 
and  infirm  grasp  of  the  last  toper — it  would  seem  that  the 
apartment  had  been  made,  a  very  short  while  before,  the 
scene  of  a  riotous  merry-making.  The  fire  yet  lay  mingled 
with  the  ashes  into  which  it  had  been  ralced  on  the  previous 
evening.  A  miserable  half-burnt  cat  sat  near  the  hearth, 
vainly  employed  in  an  endeavour  to  impare  a  degree  of 
comeliness  to  her  face  by  washing  it  Mith  her  feet,  and 
sometimes  casting  a  sleepy  blinking  stare  on  the  dull  em- 
bers before  her.  The  shutters  of  the  window  being  yet 
closed,  admitted  scarcely  enough  of  the  mid-day  light  to 
enable  the  drowsy  inmates  to  distinguish  the  lateness  of  the 


3CG  SUIL  DIIUV, 

Iionr.  A  feniiile  figure,  slipslioJ  and  in  niidrcps,  glided 
into  tlie  apartment  from  an  inner  and  still  darker  room, 
and  often  stumbling  fig;iinst  various  articles  of  furniture 
■wiiicli  were  scattered  on  the  earthen  floor,  and  opening  the 
\vindow-sliutter,  used  a  gesture  of  astonishment  as  the 
bright  noon-tide  glory  rushed  iu  upon  and  around  her. 
Raising  her  hand  quickly  to  her  eyes  to  protect  and  shade 
them  from  the  effect  of  the  dazzling  light,  and  retiring  from 
the  spot,  she  proceeded,  in  some  appearance  of  haste  and 
anxiety,  to  re-establish  a  degree  of  order  in  the  house.  Tiie 
woman  was  of  a  slight  and  perhaps  graceful  figure,  although 
her  hard  discoloured  skin,  and  bony  wasted  arms  forbatie 
the  conjecture  th;it  she  could,  under  any  circumstances,  lay 
claim  to  the  praise  of  feminine  loveliness — yet  there  was 
something  both  in  her  manner  and  her  appearance  which 
was  calculated  to  attract  the  attention,  if  not  to  excite  the 
interest,  of  the  spectator.  Her  countenance  was  wasted 
and  yellow — appare'Htly  rather  from  the  influence  of  iil 
healili,  than  of  age  ti'toil.  Her  long,  dry,  liglit-coloured 
hair,  dabbled  in  dust  and  ashes,  and  hanging  neglected  about 
her  sunken  cheeks,  and  over  her  thin  sinewy  neck,  would 
have  given  her  an  air  altogether  hideous,  if  its  effect  were 
not  met  and  contradicted,  by  the  expression  of  a  full,  soft, 
clear  eye,  which,  the  instant  that  it  met  the  observation  of 
the  spectator,  engr('ssed  all  his  attention,  and  altogether 
abstracted  it  from  the  remainder  of  her  person.  A  soilud 
white  muslin  wrapper  buttoned  up  in  front,  and  a  pair  of 
brownish,  ashy,  light  slippers,  coustiuited  nearly  all  the 
visible  portion  of  her  costume. 

While  she  was  occupied  in  regulating  the  furniture,  and 
brushing  off  the  coat  of  turf  ashes  with  which  every  article 
was  covered,  with  the  wing  of  a  goose,  a  man  made  his  ap- 
pcaance  at  the  same  inner  room  fiom  which  she  had  en- 
tered, and  stood  for  a  few  moments  lazily  stretching  liim- 
sfcif  on  the  thrL'shoId.  From  the  way  in  which  liis  dress 
liung  about  him — his  neckcloth  turned  awry — his  coat  co- 


THE  COINER.  307 

verefl  with  feathers  and  ashes,  his  knees  luibuttoned,  auil 
his  cuaive  gray  v/oollen  stocl^iiigs  ''down  gyved  to  his  ankle" 
— it  evidently  appeared  that  he  had  retained  the  same  ha- 
biliments during  his  noctarnal  repose  which  he  had  worn 
on  the  iirevious  (hiy.  The  woman  gazed  at  him  for  a  n^o- 
ment  with  a  slight  emotion  of  that  disgust  which  the  "gi  tn 
and  sober"  look  of  the  companion  of  an  unlimited  dcba  ch 
is  apt  to  excite  in  the  mind  of  one  not  yet  wholly  inincd 
by  custom  to  the  hideous  and  nauseating  consequences  of 
excess,  when  the  gay  and  healthful  morning  light  steals  in 
upon  tlie  scene  of  revelry,  and  pours  its  rosy  splendour 
over  pale  and  yellow  cheeks — dull,  dim,  and  sleepless  eyes 
— sickly  and  expiring  Hgiits,  and  all  the  disgusting  details 
of  a  spectacle  of  prolonged  indulgence.  The  individual  lure 
presented  seemed  to  entertain  a  kind  of  unacknowledged 
sen-;e  of  his  own  repulsive  appearance,  for  he  walked  in  a 
shuHiing,  yawning,  sliambliug  way,  to  the  darkest  side  of 
the  apartment,  while  the  woman  continued  her  occupa- 
tion, turning  away  her  eyes  from  his  person,  a- if  unwilling 
to  contemplate,  under  circumstances  so  unfavourable,  au 
object  in  v.-hich  her  affections  had  an  interest.  From  the 
purirait  we  ha%'e  given  of  the  man,  it  may  appear  impro- 
bable that  this  should  be  the  case,  but  we  omitted  to  state, 
that  no  portion  of  the  distaste  which  his  costume  and  bear- 
ing on  tiiis  occasion  were  calculated  to  excite,  extended 
themselves  to  his  person  and  features.  The  latter  were,  in 
fact,  remarkably  striking,  and,  perhaps,  beautiful.  His  hair, 
short,  curling,  and  glossy,  revealed,  by  its  perfectly  classical 
disposition,  tiie  shape  of  a  finely  formed  head,  which  itjitted 
•with  a  Grecian  exactness.  His  features,  sharp  and  sudden 
in  their  expression,  were  rendered  still  more  poignant  and 
charactei-istic  by  the  fire  of  a  violent  eye,  of  excelling  dark- 
ness and  brilliancy.  His  ligure,  rather  low,  though  by  no 
means  stunted,  was  slight  and  muscular;  and  his  limba 
were  set  with  that  firmness  and  ease  which  renders  the 
moveniept  of  a  vigorous  man  a  spectacle  of  so  much  deliglit 


soy  SUIL  DHUV, 

and  beanty,  even  in  moments  of  the  most  arduous  exer- 
tion. 

"Ye  had  a  noisy  night  of  it  last  night,  Mark.'* 
*'  Iss." 

"  I  couldn't  get  the  child  quiet  the  whole  night  long,  for 
the  noise." 

"  I  heard  him  indeed." 
A  pause. 

"Are they  to  be  here  again  to-night,  Mark,  darling?" 

"Where  else  would  you  have  'em  be  ?" 

"And  when  are  we  to  have  peace  and  a  quiet  house  ? 
Or  is  the  child  to  be  brought  up  here  in  this  way,  and  to 
be  as  bad — as — ourselves — in  the  end  ?" 

A  fierce  look  wms  the  only  aus^^er  which  the  man  re- 
turned to  this  query,  and  both  were  again  silent. 

"  What  more  of  Mr.  Kuuiba,  Mark  ?"  was  the  next 
question  put  by  the  woman. 

It  appeared  as  if,  whither  by  accident  or  intention,  she 
had  now  started  a  theme  more  likely  to  lead  her  companion 
into  good  humoured  converse  than  the  last,  for  he  raised  his 
head  from  its  drooping,  meditative  posture,  and  his  face 
brightened,  as  he  replied  : — 

"  We  have  him,  heart,  we  have  him.  Come,  sit  near 
me,  here  on  the  settle,  love,  an'  I'll  tell  you  all  about — 
how  it  was — an'  every  thing." 

'*  You  told  me,  I  think,  yesterday,  when  Mancy  O'Neil 
interrupted  us,  that  he  went  that  morning  to  J\liss  Byrne, 
and  that  she  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  him." 

"  Because  her  friends  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  him. 
He  went,  thinking  himself  sure  of  her,  because  her  father 
wasn't  in  the  way  now." 

The  woman  groaned. 

"  Young  Kumba  himself  is,  as  we  all  know,  a  wild  hnrnm- 
skarum  sort  of  a  latl,  and  between  us  two,  not  at  all  likely 
ever  to  attain  to  a  creature  of  that  kind,  white  and  delicate, 
and  reared  like  a  lady  in  all  respects.   So  he  has  come  into 


THE  COINER.  809 

niy  advice,  not  witliout  a  great  deal  of  arguing,  to  take  her 
wliether  slie  likes  it  or  not.  And  lie's  to  be  here  this  even- 
ing, and  I'm  to  take  him  abroad  to  make  him  known  to  the 
boys,  ]\Ianey  O'Ncil,  an'  Awny  Farrel,  his  nian,  and  three 
more  sperited  lads  that  wouldn't  fall  back  of  any  thing  we 
^)ropose." 

"  And  when  is  it  to  be?" 

"  To-night — or  never.  Nothing  like  keeping  time  be- 
hind you — and  that's  what  I  said  to  you,  the  niglit  in  the 
sally  grove  estwards,  when  1  had  your  hand  in  mine,  and 
the  horses  waiting,  and  you  wanted  me  to  let  it  alone  till 
niorncn,  till  you'd  see  the  old  people  once  more,  and  leave 
a  token  on  j  our  dressing  table  for  'em,  and  I  wouldn't  stop 
an  hour,  and  wasn't  it  w^ell  for  us,  for  there  was  a  watch 
eet  for  you  that  very  night." 

The  soft  eyes  of  the  female  glistened  and  expanded  on 
the  speaker,  but  the  sigh  which  accompanied  the  look  of 
tenderness  rendered  it  a  doubtful  matter  whether  she  really 
did  consider  it  as  "  well  for  her"  that  she  had  escaped  the 
watch  set  foi'  her  on  the  occa-ion  alluded  to. 

Before  the  conversation  was  renewed,  a  slight  knocking 
at  the  door  of  the  inn  announced  to  the  ear  of  the  male 
speaker  the  approach  of  the  young  man  whose  affairs  had 
constituted  its  chief  topic.  His  dress,  manner,  and  language 
were  such  as  to  place  him,  at  first  sight,  in  a  superior  point 
of  view  to  those  whose  society  he  was  about  to  seek,  although 
those  of  the  latter  were  not  of  the  very  lowest  grade,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  in  the  manner  of  his  greeting,  as  he  en- 
tered, an  unconquerable  and  involuntary  consciousness  of 
self-abasement,  though  so  fleeting  and  so  slightly  marked 
that  tiie  quick  eye  of  the  host  could  not,  had  he  been  so 
inclined,  arrest  it  with  sufiicient  certainty  to  take  offence. 
Before  we  proceed  to  lay  the  consequences  of  his  arrival  be- 
fore the  reader,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  enter  once  moi'e  into 
detail  on  the  character  and  fortunes  of  the  new-comer. 

Robert  Kumba,  the  youngest  son  of  a  comfortable  faroicr 


310  SUIL  DHcrv, 

in  the  ncig1iTx)nr1ioocl  of  the  inn,  was  one  of  those  anoma- 
lous personages  whose  characters  are  made  up  of  a  series 
of  paradoxes.  He  was  siiy,  to  the  appearance  of  a  repre- 
hensible timidity,  and  yet  daring  to  a  degree  beyond  rash- 
ness itself,  both  in  the  formation  and  the  execution  of  any 
design  in  which  his  happiness  was  at  all  involved — unsatis- 
fied with  ordinary  means,  and  still  more  so  with  ordinary 
ends,  seeking  for  higher,  yet  unequal  to  these — scrupulous 
to  a  perfect  exactness  in  all  transactions  where  his  heart 
exercised  no  influence  over  his  conscience,  but  frequently 
led  into  the  wildest  and  most  apparently  dishonest  practices, 
by  mistaking  tlie  arguments  of  passion  and  feeling  fur  those 
of  reason — sensitive  even  to  finery^  when  tried  with  mode- 
rate and  limited  excitements,  yet  easily  capable  of  being 
wrought  up  into  a  savage  disregard  of  all  social  and  moral 
restraint  when  heated  by  a  skilfully-used  and  violent  im- 
pulse— suspicious  in  the  minutest  trifles,  yet  flinging  him- 
self and  his  fortunes  with  the  most  unguarded  confidence  on 
the  chance-honesty  of  a  stranger  whom  his  enthusi.ism  or 
his  weakness  of  mind  led  him  to  select  as  a  friend,  untried 
and  unknown — proud,  fierce,  and  irritable,  when  any,  even 
of  those  who  might  reasonably  claim  such  a  right,  attempted 
to  assert  a  natural  dominion  over  him,  yet  submitting  liim- 
sJf  with  a  voluntary,  and  sometimes  amiost  a  pitiable  do- 
cility to  the  guidance  of  a  man  who  was  his  inferior  in  rank 
and  education,  and  whose  only  advantage,  in  point  of  intel- 
lect, was  in  tlie  possession  of  that  quality  which  lago  so 
flatteringly  and  falsely  attributed  to  his  Venetian  dupe,  Ko- 
derigo,  a  firm  and  resolute  "  purpose." 

Circumstances  had  contiibuted  to  render  the  character  of 
the  young  man  more  positive  and  confirmed,  at  the  same 
time  that  none  of  its  contrarieties  had  been  blended  or 
softened  down  by  the  lapse  of  years  and  the  growth  of  ex- 
perience. His  family,  of  which,  as  I  have  before  mentioned, 
he  was  tlie  youngest  member,  was  numerous ;  and  being  placed 
precisely  in  that  rank  of  lile  in  which  appearances  are  con* 


THE  COINEB.  311 

suited  with  the  greatest  anxiety,  as  one  of  the  faiK^i'slfi 
modes  of  rendenng  its  position,  witli  respect  to  the  rclatiuiis 
of  society  above  and  below  it,  less  equivocal,  their  humble 
means  were  tasked  to  an  extent  which  made  it  absolutely 
necessary  that  a  mortifying  privation  should  fall  on  some, 
or  all.  Little  Bob  felt  the  influence  of  this  necessity  before 
he  was  able  to  remonstrate  against  its  particular  appllcatioi? 
to  himself.  By  a  course  of  reasoning  very  pardonable,  if 
not  free  fi'ora  error,  his  older  friends  and  protectors  measured 
his  wants  by  their  own  estimation  of  his  claims,  and  tliey 
would,  in  all  probability,  have  laughed  at  the  idea  ol 
taking  the  little  urchin's  feelings  into  account.  It  was  by 
no  means,  therefore,  considered  either  unwise  or  unreasou- 
able  that  Bob,  about  whom  nobody  cared,  should  run  bare- 
foot, while  the  extremities  of  his  elders,  who  had  b?gan  to 
assume  a  place  in  the  consideration  of  their  neighbours, 
were  vested  in  the  shining  hixury  of  polished  calf-skin  and 
lambs-wool;  nor  for  the  same  reason  did  any  of  his  friends 
question  the  propriety  of  allowing  Bob's  little  bandlci-cloth 
shirt  to  hail  the  light  of  day  through  the  fissures  which  tiinc 
had  made  in  the  elbows  of  his  coarse  frieze  jacket,  while  the 
well-ironed  and  neatly-frilled  inner  garments  of  his  brother 
were  protected  by  a  yearly  suit  of  glossy  broad-cloth,  illu- 
minated with  rows  of  the  most  resplendent  gilt  buttons,  and 
modelled  after  the  most  approved  specimens  which  the  ca[>i- 
tal  of  the  country  (the  emporium  of  all  fashion  and  taste  in 
costume)  could  supply.  The  very  circumstance,  moreover, 
of  the  mortifying  distinction  which  was  thus  unwarily  drawn 
between  him  and  his  brothers,  subjected  him  to  whit  his 
boyish  spirit  felt  to  be  still  further  degradation  ;  and  his 
ragged  and  neglected  appearance  seemed,  in  the  eyes  of  ins 
philosophic  friends,  to  afibrd  good  reason  forempNying  hini 
in  many  menial  olHces  about  tiie  farm,  which  woul  1  utlierwise 
have  been  allotted  to  a  menial,  or  shared  with  him  by  the 
other  members  of  the  horsehold.  "  Bob  is  uot  dressed,  so 
he  can  help  to  foot  the  tuif." — "  Bob  has  no  shoes  uar  v.hito 


312  SUIL  DHUV, 

stocldrgs  on,  so  he  can  turn  home  the  cows.** — "  Bob  will 
run  to  the  village  for "  whatever  it  might  be  "  for  no- 
body will  remark  his  carrying  a  bundle,"  were  sour.ds  no 
less  familiar  to  the  ears  than  graticg  to  the  feelirg  of  the 
boy — although  the  custom  which  he  had  been  in  from  his 
iuiiincy  of  taking  upon  trust  the  opinions  of  those  above  him, 
and  adopting  them  without  consideration,  prevented  his  once 
entertaining  a  suspicion  of  the  justice  of  any  arrangement 
of  the  kind.  His  parents  were  the  best-meaning  people  in 
the  world,  but  they  laid,  without  being  aware  of  it,  a  train 
of  circumstances  very  sutiicient  to  darken  a  character  of  a 
much  gayer  and  less  sensitive  nature  than  that  of  the  subject 
on  Avhich  they  now  practised.  i\ccordin2:  as  his  mindfdlcd 
and  strengthened,  and  began  to  originate  its  own  sensations, 
the  peculiarities  of  his  situation  pressed  upon  him  with  in- 
creasing acuteness.  He  began  to  ponder  on  the  cause,  as 
well  as  to  fret  and  chafe  at  the  effect.  The  circumstance  of 
his  natural  guardians'  having  neglected  to  furnish  him  with 
the  means  of  appearing  on  an  equality  nith  his  friends,  did 
not  any  longer  appear  a  quite  satisfactory  reason  for  de- 
priving him  of  their  society  a\  hen  any  prospect  of  amuse- 
ment or  advantage  called  them  from  home  ;  or  if  it  did 
apjiear  so,  his  anger  now  referred  itself  from  the  privation 
to  its  apology,  and  found  quite  as  exciting  and  irritating  a 
subject  in  the  one  as  in  the  other.  The  comparatively  slight- 
ing and  careless  manner,  moreover,  in  which  he  was  re- 
garded by  the  visiters  of  the  house,  and  the  occasional  stare 
of  contemptuous  scrutiny  which  he  underwent  from  the  rude 
eye  of  a  stranger,  rankled  in  his  soul  and  turued  all  the  current 
of  his  thoughts  and  feelings  to  gall  and  vinegar.  A  young 
and  ardent  mind  has  airivcd  at  a  terrilic  crisis  when  it  begins 
to  suspect  that  it  is  treated  M'ith  injustice  or  neglect;  and 
more  especially  if  that  injustice  is  inflicted  by  those  on  whom 
it  is  dejiendent  for  instruction  and  support,  and  who  are,  by 
tl'.e  authority  with  which  they  are  invested,  exempt  from 
the  possibility  of  rcmouslrancc.     isaturally  of  a  shy  and 


THE  COINER.  313 

resei-ved  Iialiit,  the  course  of  life  -which  we  have  h  en  c!e- 
scribhig,  was  higlily  calculated  to  increase  the  timidity  and 
consequent  susceptibility  of  character  which  young  Kumba 
already  manifested — and  this  apparent  blocking  up  of  every 
avenue  tln'ough  which  his  feelings,  d;irk,  light,  dangerous, 
or  landaMe  as  they  were,  might  tind  their  way  to  the  obser- 
vation of  those  whose  censure  or  approval  could  have  any 
influence  upon  them — threw  the  youth  back  upon  himself, 
and  forced  him  upon  habits  of  brooding  and  gloomy  medi- 
tation which  hiid  the~  foundation  of  many  a  black  design 
and  many  a  \^  retched  hour  in  his  after  life  Before  we  dis- 
miss the  subject  of  his  education,  one  observation  may  be 
allowed  on  a  very  general  mistake  which  is  made  with  re- 
spect to  childish  reserve  and  backwai  dncss.  \Vc  have  seen 
it  usually  commended  by  teachers  and  guardians  as  indi- 
cative of  gentleness  and  a  proper  docility  of  temper,  most 
probably  for  the  obvious  reason  that  such  children  occasion 
them  least  vexation  and  annoyance  at  the  mument ;  but  it 
by  no  means  follows  tliat  the  quality,  though  convenient, 
is  at  all  beneficial  or  estimable.  Every  possible  meana 
should  be  put  in  use  for  the  pui-po;e  of  drawing  a  child  in 
whom  this  disposition  to  secrecy  is  observed,  into  a  bold 
and  frank  habit  of  declaring  Lis  mind  on  all  occasions  ;  and 
this  habit  would  be  very  lightly  purchased  by  the  omission 
of  punishment  for  certain  instanc.  s  of  m'schief  or  crimina- 
lity. An  over-bold,  noisy,  passionate  disposition  in  a  child, 
is  always  safer  than  a  temper  too  easily  governable  and  duc- 
tile. It  is  the  business  of  etlucation  to  restrain,  direct,  and 
expunge,  but  it  can  never  supply  a  positive  want  in  cha- 
racter. 

It  Avas  with  the  result  of  all  the  unhappy  influences  we 
have  been  detailing,  fresh  upon  him,  that  the  mild  and  the 
mettled,  the  soft-worded  and  the  violent,  the  crouching  and 
the  fiery,  the  confident  and  the  suspicious,  the  shy,  and 
shrinking,  and  daring  youth  of  whom  we  speak,  found  him- 
self, Avith  all  his  crudcness  of  heart  and  mind,  established, 
14 


814  SUIL  DHUV, 

bj  one  of  those  impossible  accidents  which  occur  every  day, 
ill  the  possession  of  that  property  on  whicli  he  had  been 
•tafFeivd  to  vegetate  from  his  childhood.  It  will  not  be  diffi- 
cult to  suppose,  that  as  his  fortunes  tlius  su(klenly  outstript 
his  expectations,  so  they  found  liim  imfittcd,  from  inexpe- 
rience as  well  as  indisposition,  for  the  management  of  the 
means  Avhich  they  placed  under  his  government.  Miscal- 
culation of  their  extent  was  the  obvious  and  immediate 
evil ;  anil  the  unsettled  and  wavering  mind  of  the  young 
proprietor  precluded  all  hope  of  an  industrious  inquiiy  in 
that  particular,  or  a  persevering  and  rational  system  in  their 
application.  A  few  years  of  expense  and  indolence,  or  ra- 
ther fitful  and  misdirected  exertion,  did  all  for  the  farm 
which  indolence  could  have  done  ;  and  Kumba,  almost  be- 
fore his  minority  was  ended,  found  himself  the  possessor  of, 
or  rather  the  responsible  agent  for  a  ruined  ;ind  encum- 
bered proi)eity ; — neglected  by  his  acquaintances,  censured, 
and  only  censured,  by  his  friends,  ouce  more  flung  back 
upon  liimself ;  and  more — hv  more — than  all,  rejected  with 
a  wholesome  and  almost  laudable  spirit  of  displeasui'e  from 
one  house,  which  contained  for  him  an  object  of  the  mo-t 
siiriing  ambition  which  had  ever  been  excited  within  his 
soul,  after  the  dcgiadaiion  of  unsuccessful  solicitation,  and 
by  one  in  whose  eyes  he  liad,  in  times  of  j;rcatcr  h.ippine.'-s 
and  prosperity,  read  a  promise  of  a  kinder  and  more  endur- 
ing interest. 

Tiiis  last  blow,  wliich  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  con- 
sider as  other  than  undeserved,  succeeded  in  unsettling  the 
purposes  and  pursuits  of  the  young  man  He  was  now 
placed  in  a  more  immediately  dangerous  position  than  when 
he  lived  in  a  state  of  dependence  on  the  will  of  others ;  for 
although  the  world  might  exercise  just  that  degree  of  in- 
fluence over  him,  which  made  him  keenly  sensible  ot  its  in- 
justice, it  could  not  govern  the  consequences  of  that  sensi- 
bility. The  most  immediate  was  a  seeking  to  supply,  by 
lie  excessive  use  of  every  species  of  mere  vulg  ir  excitcmcat, 


THE  COINER.  '61b 

the  loss  of  til  at  tender  aucl  delicious  incentive,  upon  which 
his  spiiit  had  lived  for  years;  and,  finding  himself,  as  we 
have  before  stated,  shut  out  by  his  unfurtiinite  circumstances 
from  that  society  to  which  he  had  lately  been  accustomed, 
and  to  which  his  habits  and  his  feelings  induced  him  to  cling- 
most  affection  lately,  the  natural  result  was  his  reasoning  hiui- 
self  into  a  toleration  of  any  whatsoever,  in  which  he  cotild 
secure  himself  a  phce.  This  groat  imiirndence  met  w  ith  a 
fatal  retribution.  Among  the  many  Ioav  fellows  who  sought, 
yet  vainly,  to  fasten  themselves  upon  his  rogard,  the  fiery 
young  man  who  now  rose  to  bid  him  welcome  beneath  his 
roof,  and  in  \^hose  character,  at  least,  though  not  in  his 
habits  of  life,  he  had  Tiund  many  traits  of  resemblance  to 
his  own,  succeeded  in  fixing  a  single  claim  on  his  attention. 
This  person,  however,  had  a  great  advantage,  so  fir  as  the 
heart's  ease  was  concerned,  over  his  superior  friend  (for 
such  he  speedily  became),  in  his  pn-fect  freedom  from,  and 
almost  ignorance  of,  all  those  delicate  susceptibilities  and 
compunchons  which  education,  no  less  than  nature,  had 
breaihed  into  the  soul  of  the  latter;  and  he  found,  conse- 
quently, much  less  diflaculty  in  complying  with  the  violent 
impulses  which  were  common  to  boLii.  Few  descriptions  of 
characters  are  more  likely  to  acquire  au  influence  over  au 
unformed  and  self-diflidtnt  mind,  than  one  of  a  more  vigor- 
ous and  persevering  energy  ;  and  the  contact  between  two 
such  spirits  is  dangerous  or  fortunate,  precisely  in  relation 
to  the  good  or  evil  nature  of  that  which  is  in  the  ascendant. 
Our  readers  may  ere  now  have  conjectured,  and  not  un- 
wisely, that  the  character  of  the  young  landlord  was  not 
such  as  to  render  a  conjunction  indicative  of  very  great 
benefit  to  Kumba.  Sptliacy,  who,  from  some  motive  which 
it  is  not  necessary  here  to  explain,  seemed  to  look  on  his 
new  associate  as  one  whose  co-operation  might  be  of  in- 
calculable importance  to  his  own  designs,  managed  their  ac- 
quaintance with  the  art  of  a  master.  Never  presuming  to 
afi'ect  anything  like  a  cojsciousn  ts  of  the  influence  which 


315  SUIL  DHUV, 

lie  was  acquiring  most  rapidly  over  the  mind  of  liis  com- 
panion, he  was,  on  all  occasions,  when  the  absence  of  a  po- 
tent stimnlus  left  the  reason  of  the  other  at  liberty  to  dis- 
criminate and  decide,  the  humble  and  piirasitical  dependant 
— honoured  by  the  presence  of  his  superior — governed,  or 
seeming  to  be  governed  by  his  breath — gratified  by  his  con- 
verse— grateful  for  his  fiuendship — all,  in  fact,  that  Kuniba's 
vanity  could  desire;  and  it  was  only  when  he  had  flung tlie 
latter  off  his  guard,  when  he  had  startled  him  with  some 
astounding  difficulty,  oftentimes  existing  only  in  the  lying 
imagination  that  had  framed  it,  that  he  assumed  the  privi- 
lege of  leading  the  way,  and  gained  himself  credit  for  genius 
as  well  as  intrepidity — tliat  he  dared  to  point  out  his  course 
to  his  superior — to  fill  his  ears  with  the  accents  of  command 
> — to  say  "  Do  thij  !"  without  qualification,  and  it  was  done. 

Far,  far,  by  this  artful  and  sinuous  course,  had  the  rufEan 
succeeded  in  conducting  his  dupe  from  the  equator  of  moral 
rectitude,  before  the  evening  on  which  both  have  been  pre- 
sented to  the  acquaintance  of  the  reader.  He  had  not  yet, 
hoAvcvcr,  ventured  to  propose  to  him  a  participation  in  any 
act  of  foul  and  positive  guilt ;  but  the  last  train  which  ho 
h-.d  laid  was  so  perfectly  skilful  and  deceptive  as  to  jilaco 
the  youth  entirely  within  the  dominion  of  his  temper.  The 
circumstances,  at  least  as  much  of  them  as  is  needed  to 
make  the  narrative  comprehensible,  may  be  gathered  from 
the  scene  which  followed. 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Spcllacy,  in  obedience  to  a  slight  action 
from  her  husband,  had  left  the  room,  Kumba,  wlio  till  that 
moment  remained  half  dubious  of  his  course,  holding  the 
open  door  in  one  hand,  and  gazing  intently  into  the  eyes  of 
his  host,  nodded,  as  we  have  before  mentioned,  with  a  very 
slight  air  of  superiority,  and  passing  in  silence  to  the  centre, 
took  one  of  the  rude  chairs  which  lay  scattered  about,  and 
sat  for  several  minutes  in  apparently  a  total  recklessness 
of  the  presence  of  a  second  person.  During  this  mood,  the 
cbserver  maiulaiucd  a  rcspectliil  and  delicate  sileucc,  wau- 


THE  COINEIt.  317 

dering  about  tlie  room  ■\vil:!i  noi'^ele^s  stops,  to  nran^e  a  fish- 
hia'  rod,  or  examine  some  domestic  'itensil ;  occtisioiially  di- 
recting a  glniico,  into  which  he  contrived  to  throw  all  the 
interest  and  humble  attachment  whicli  be  was  capable  of 
assuming,  at  the  contemplative  and  rapidly  changing  coun- 
tenance of  his  friend.  One  of  these  glances,  at  length,  as 
was  the  intention  of  the  man,  met  the  eye  of  the  latter,  and 
the  efTect  -whicli  it  produced  was  as  he  desired. 

"  Well !  Spcllacy,  what  is  your  genius  now  to  do  for 
me  ?  T  come  to  you,  a  ruined  man,  to  tell  you  that  yt  ur 
sclieme  hns  fdled,  and  I  am  now  left  wiihout  one  hope  in 
the  world.  I  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  you,  Spelhicy, 
on  the  subject  of  those  repeated  disappointments.  I  do 
not  suspect  your  sinceriy,  but  I  think  you  careless  cf  my 
fortuni'S,  and  that,  with  your  professions,  is  Utile  better 
than  foul  pi  iv.  Never  look  upon  me — what  I  have  said, 
I  say.  You  told  me  yes'erday  that  you  had  laid  a  plan 
which  could  not  fail  to  res' ore  me  to  all  I  had  lost,  and 
you  made  n)y  head  dizzy  with  hope.  You  spor.ed  with 
me,  sir — you  mocked  me.      I  have  been  disappoin'ed." 

"  Cireat  Heaven!"  Spellacy  exclaimed,  drawing  back 
Avith  a  stare  of  confusion  and  dismay,  blended  with  an  ex- 
pression of  deep  dejection.  The  emotion  was  suflicicntly 
well  counterfeited  to  impose  on  Kumba,  who  thought  he 
could  discern,  moreover,  a  certain  degree  of  self-reproach 
in  the  attitude,  downcast  and  diooping,  in  which  hi;  friend 
remained — his  hands  clasped,  and  hanging  dovsai  bcf  ro 
him — his  mouth  agape,  and  his  black  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground  w  ith  the  ah-  of  one  who  has  received  news  of  a 
sudden  misfortune  from  a  quarter  to  which  he  looked  for 
joyous  intelligence. 

"  For  my  part,  Spellacy,"  the  young  man  continued, 
"  I  do  not  come  to  ask  you  to  tax  your  ingenuity  for  any 
nc'.v  advice.  All  is  over  \vith  me  now,  and  I  only  sfck 
you  for  t!ie  purpose  of  hiving  before  you  n  y  in' en i ion  ;  fo: 
1  have  at  last  turuicd  a  dcsigu  for  m\self.     And  first  hear 


318  SUIL  DIIUV, 

m'^.  You  know  that  it  is  to  me  you  owe  tliis  lionse  iu 
which  you  dwe'l,  and  all  that  you  po-sess." 

"  I  am  proud  to  own  it,  Mr.  Kuinba,  I  am  proud  to 
own  it." 

"  You  came  to  me  poor,  destitute,  and  moneyless — and 
you  came  to  me  iu  a  hicky  liour.  I  had  just  received  Mrs. 
Byrne's  ct'ld-hearted  letter,  in  which  she  bargained  w  ith  so 
much  keen-sighted  precision  for  the  exact  quantum  of  pru- 
dence and  good  behaviour  which  was  to  entitle  me  once 
moie  to  a  re-admission  into  their  f  miily  circl ".  You  found 
me  endeavouring  to  droun  the  consciousness  of  the  heart- 
less repulse  in  the  fames  of  strong  drink.  You  seized  the 
moment — you  told  me  th:it  a  lovt  ly  girl  had  elped  wiih 
you  from  the  comforts  of  a  ^^ ealtliy  home,  and  that  }ou 
had  not  one  guinea  in  tho  world  to  secure  her  even  the 
means  of  subsist'  nee  for  a  week.  There  was  some  story 
about  your  lo-se^,  too.  You  told  me,  I  thii:k,  that  you 
h  id  been  reiluced  to  that  extreme  poverty  by  having  hail 
the  misfortune  to  foil  in  with  the  remuant  of  Redmond 
O'llanlon's  gang,  who  had  taken  up  their  residence  for 
some  time  in  ihis  part  of  the  country,  and  who,  by  th3 
way,  are  strongly  su  pecteJ  of  being  the  fabricators  and 
utter^rs  of  the  false  coin  that  has  spread  to  such  an  fxteiit 
through  our  towns  anil  villages,  althougli  every  attempt  to 
discover  their  retreat  has  beon  hitherto  unavailing." 

Spellacy  fere  tm-ned  aside  for  the  purpose  of  concealing 
a  Siviile,  which  lie  seemed  unable  wholly  to  suppress, 

"  Jily  heart,"  Kumba  continued,  "torn  and  wounded  as 
it  was  A\ith  its  own  injuries,  was  open  to  your  plea;  and, 
what  perh;ip3  was  more  to  the  purpose  iu  }our  eyes,  my 
purse  was  open  also." 

"It  was — I  f  (Cly  own,  sii,"  said  the  other,  "  1  he  ly 
own  it,  Mr.  Kumba." 

'•  \\\11,"  t^aui  the  young  man,  "since  tluit  lime,  ytii  have 
been  forming  p'an  alter  plan,  to  enable  me  to  cany  ia;o 
Cllect  the  views  which  you  knew  1  em  rlaii.ed,  with  respect 


THE  COINER.  319 

to  tliat  dear — bnt  rigidly  righteous  being — and  every  scheme 
has  ended  in  fixing  my  despair  upon  me  more  fiimly  than 
ever.  I  will  not  tuspcct  your  truth.  1  believe  you  re  dly 
were  grateful — but  you  I'.ave  brought  me  to  the  gatt  s  of 
ruin,  and  I  will  take  the  liberty  of  lilting  the  latch  with  jut 
your  a-sistance.  I  have  resolved  on  stlliug  oft'  the  remain- 
der of  my  httle  property,  and  purchasing  a  pair  of  col  urs 
with  the  product.  I  am  careless  now  of  life  or  forti  lie, 
and' had  r.ither  di3  in  the  noise  and  tumult  of  a  camp,  tiiaii 
let  sorrow  waste  me  to  death  in  this  ditert.  I  have  not 
forgotten  you,  however.  You  meant  well,  Spellacy,  al- 
though you  were  not  so  successful  as  I  could  have  wished  ; 
and  1  have,  theiefore,  taken  care  to  secure  the  leasehold  of 
your  house  and  small  farm  to  you,  for  the  original  term  of 
uiy  hulding.     Here  is  thj  instrument." 

"  You  had  always  a  generous  heart,  Mr.  Kumba,"  said 
Spellacy,  whose  manner  expressed  at  once  satisfaction  at 
the  gift,  and  alarm  at  the  step  that  Kumba  meditated,  and 
which  appeared  likely  to  thwart  most  eftectually  the  pro- 
gress ot  iiis  own  designs  ;  "  but  suiely,  s-ir,  I  haven't  heard 
you  rightly.  Go  into  the  army  !  And  is  that  the  way 
you'll  give  her  up,  after  all  that  lias  been  doi.e — and  witli 
li.e  f  lirest  chances  in  your  favour,  that  mortal  man  could 
wish  for?  Let  me  know  the  cause,  sir,  at  any  raie  ;  what 
is  it  that  has  made  yuu  giv^;  up  all  h^pe  at  once,  that  w,  y. 
I  heard  to  a  certainty  that  iVIiss  Byrne  would  pass  throuj^h 
the  sally  grove  this  morning.  I  knew  how  much  one  word 
from  yuu  to  herself,  face  to  face,  would  do  to  soften  I.er 
heart  towards  you  once  more  ;  and  at  any  rate,  I  was  quite 
ceriain,  tiiat  she  would  not  be  angry  at  just  being  forced  to 
go  oft,  if  it  was  neccs.-ary,  and  s  j  1  sent  word  to  yuu  aijout 
it ;  but  1  suppose  she  uiihi't  Ci  m  ,  by  what  you  say  ?" 

"  Siie  did  nut.  On  the  contrary,  I  discovered  that  she 
had  ri.cei\ed,  by  sonie  unkn  iwn  hand,  an  intimation  ot  my 
design.  1  thought  you  would  keep  the  secret  better,  Spei- 
lucy." 


320  SUIL  DIIUV, 

"  Me  keep  it !"  the  other  replied,  in  some  confiirion. 
*'  Iliinum  ear8  did  not  hear  me  breathe  a  word  of  it,  ex- 
cept tlie  pair  that  belonged  to  Awney  Farrel,  who  carried 

you  my  messoge — and  if  I  thought  he 0,  but  that's 

impossible." 

"  I  do  not  charge  hira  with  treachery.  However,  no 
matter  where  the  treason  lies,  my  doom  is  scaled,  at  all 
events.  I  will  not  run  the  risk  of  farther  diiappointmeut. 
Suspense  is  worse  than  hanging." 

"  Why  s'lould  you  say  any  such  th'ng,  sir  ?  Is  thit 
actini:  cither  with  sense  or  spirit  ?  There  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  creatures  that  ever  walked  the  ground,  dying 
for  you,  and  you  talk  of  leaving  her  and  the  country  for 
ever,  on  account  of  a  little  dilficulty  thrown  in  your  way 
by  licr  friends  !  Think  for  a  moment,  Avhat  a  prize  it  is 
you  are  leaving  after  you." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  her  then?"  said  Kumba,  encou- 
raging th;^  subject,  in  the  manner  of  one  who  was  not  un- 
willing   I  be  dissuaded. 

"  I  saw  her,"  Spellacy  replied,  "  on  an  occasion  that  I 
never  \\ill  forget.  It  was  on  the  first  of  May,  when  the 
mummers  of  our  village  stopped  on  the  laAvn  before  Drum- 
scanlon,  her  fither's  house,  and  the  fixmily  came  out  ujion 

the  field  to  see  our  dance.     Miss  Byrne  herself  was but 

I  bi^g  pardon,  sir  ;   I'm  interfering  with  your  time." 

"Co  on,"  saidlvumbi,  "  I  could  hear  you  spjak  on  that 
theme  until  my  hairs  were  gi'ay." 

"  i\Iiss  Byrne  herself,"  Spellacy  resumed,  "  was  dres«ed 
in  lier  fine  llovercd-silk  gown  (a  thing  that  woidd  stand  on 
the  ground  of  itself),  and  her  red,  gold  laced  Spanisii-lca- 
ther  shoes,  as  small  as  robin-redbreast's — her  fine  scarlet 
silk  stockings  with  silver  clocks — her  darling  real  Spanish 
cloth  jacket,  fastened  over  her  boso;n  so  handsomely  with 
rii)bons — and  on  her  fine  lady-like  head,  so  stately  and  so 
sweet  at  the  same  time,  her  beaver  hat  with  the  be  lutiful 
silver-lace  triminiii;c  and  the  buckle  ! — V7cll  'twas  a  alAit, 


THE  COINER.  S21 

for  .1  Idncj  to  look  at.  And  with  all  tliat  now,  slie  hau  no 
more  pride  than  an  infiint.  She  talked  toi;  all,  just  ?.s  l> 
she  took  a  delight  to  see  us  that  way,  dancing  J' bout  the 
]\Iaypole.  And  she  gave  her  hand  to  myself  with  such  a 
smile,  uhen  I  asked  her  just  for  one  turn  of  a  slip  jig,  just 
to  have  it  to  say.  And  she  did  dance  in  style.  0,  the  cut- 
ting— and  the  shuffling — and  the  pretty  liitle  quibbling  o' 
the  feet  over  the  ground  !" 

"  You  speak  as  if  you  were  in  love  yourself,"  said  Kumba. 

"  Me  in  love  !"  Spellacy  replied,  starting  in  some  confu- 
sion ;  "  0  that's  all  over  with  me  now,  sir,  I  have  only  the 
one  love,  and  I  desire  no  more."  [This  was  said  in  a  loud 
tone,  evidently  with  the  iniention  of  being  heard  in  the  next 
room.]  "  Herself  is  listening  to  us,"  he  added  in  a  low 
voice,  nodding  his  head  aside  towards  the  room  door,  with 
a  knowing  smile  and  wink.  "  No,  Mr.  Kumba  ;  but  I 
tliou.;lit  then,  and  I  often  thought  since,  what  a  happiness 
it  would  be  to  your  tenants,  and  to  us  all,  if  they  could  have 
such  a  mi  tress  over  'em.  What  a  delight  it  would  be,  if 
we  could  all  meet  tiiat  way  once  a  year  befoe  your  own 
door,  to  see  you  come  out  and  join  the  dancers,  with  that 
beautiful  yoiing  lady  locking  arms*  with  you.  And  she'd 
be  a  treasure  to  any  man  too,  for,  let  alone  her  beauty,  there 
isn't  a  better  housekeeper  in  the  country,  I  hear.' 

Kumba  paused  for  sometime,  and  sighed  in  secret,  while 
he  ran  over  in  his  mind  the  picture  of  rural  happiness  uhich 
Sjiellacy  had  presented  to  it,  and  which  he  had  often  be- 
fore, in  days  of  prouder  hope,  loved  to  summon  up  andcoa- 
template,  as  the  ideal  of  his  own  ambition. 

"  If  there  was  a  possibility  of  its  acconipiishmcnt,"  said 
he — ''  but  why  will  you  vex  me  by  tiiose  idle  dreams  ? 
Her  father  is  dead — and  cannot  recall  the  |jledge  which  ha 
extorted  from  her  in  dying,  that  she  would  never  more  re- 
ceive me  to  her  confidence.  Her  coM  and  formal  mother  is 
confirmed  in  her  hatred  of  me  by  the  Hue  of  coudact  which 
*  Leaning  on  him. 
14* 


322  SUIL  DHUV, 

I  Iiave  pursupcl — and  I  have  not  the  remotest  hope  of  being 
able  to  tempt  her  to  disobedience.  They  want  me  to  toil 
like  Jacob  fur  seven  years,  and  to  prove  myself  a  true  peni- 
tent. I  am  not  one  of  those  cold  and  patient  spirits — I 
Ci^nnot  wait  day  after  day  to  gratify  a  liumour  that  may 
change  aitd  deceive  me  after  all.  They  have  made  me  des- 
perate, and  I  had  rather  now  risk  all  on  one  bold  cast,  than 
tiiruw  up  the  tables  and  repair  my  losses  by  tardy  industry, 
as  they  desire." 

"  If  you  are  disposed  that  way,  sir,"  said  Spellacy,  with 
some  hesitation,  "  there  is  one  way  left  that  would  be  cer- 
tain enough,  I  think,  but  I  was  loath  to  propose  it  to  you, 
as  it  is  more  violent  and  dangerous  than  1  believed  would 
please  you." 

"  I  shall  like  it  th-  better,"  said  Kiimba,  "  what  is  it  ?" 
"  It  is  too  long  now  to  talk  of,  sir,  but  if  you'll  meet  me 
this  evening,  late,  say  about  seven  o'clock,  at  the  Ratli  on 
the  hill  above,  I'll  exphdn  everything  to  you,  and  we'll  set 
about  it  as  soon  as  can  be.  Stop  !  Who  is  it  that's  knock- 
iug?" 

The  interruption  was  occasioned  by  the  arrival  of  the 
travellers,  and  tlie  tintinabulary  application  of  the  handle 
ot  tlie  old  Palatine's  whip  to  the  plain  impanelled  door. 

"Trasclleis!"  said  Spellacy  tohimself,  altvr  hehad  peeped 
through  the  window  ;  "  a  new  decoy  of  Awney  Fan-el's,  I 
suppose.  Come  away,  out  the  back  door,  Mr.  Kumba, 
for  'twould  be  as  well,  may  be,  if  you  weien't  seen  by  'em. 
Mvs.  Sp.Uacy,  look  to  the  door,  honey,  ami  attend  to  the 
travellers.  Mr.  Kumba,  you  won't  forget  seven  o'clock — at 
the  K.tth." 

*'  ril  be  pun':tual,"  said  Kumba,  as  he  closed  the  door 
behind  him. 

"  Now,"  Spellacy  continued,  turning  m  ith  sudden  energy 
to  his  A\  ife,  as  she  made  her  appearance  from  the  inner 
room,  "you'll  not  forget  our  usual  plan.  '1  ho.^c  appear  to  be 
co'-iifji''abL'  people,  and  you  know  we   are  reduced  to  our 


IHL  CU1N2R.  (i23 

last  aliifts.  Yoa  will  see  whether  tlicy  are  armed,  ami  take 
care  to  pruvide  against  that  misLhicf." 

"  More  guilt !"  exclaimed  the  woman,  "  more  blood  I  Oh, 
Mark,  when  will  our  measure  be  completed  ?" 

"Poh  !  no  blooil,  fool,"  exclaimed  the  man,  "  I  wish  to 
prevent  it.  Listen  to  n:e.  Do  as  I  desire  you  to  do  this 
one  night,  and  I  never  again  will  ask  you  to  serve  me  in 
thfe  same  manner." 

"  If  I  could  believe  this " 

*'  Here  is  my  hand  and  word.** 

••  I  have  no  choice  but  to  take  it,"  said  the  woman- 
"  The  time  is  gone  by  wlien  I  could  have  made  one." 

*•  What  do  you  say  that  for  now  ?"  said  Spellacy,  fiercely. 
*'  Didn't  you  know  who  you  were  marrying  when  you  same 
Witli  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mark — but — "  here  she  hesitated,  as  if  unwilling 
to  Dazard  the  whole  truth. 

"Oil,  I  understand  you,"  said  Spelhcy.  "You  didn't 
know  all — you  didn't  know  what  a  com^  le'e  ruffian  I  was. 
You  thouglit  you  were  only  marrying  your  father's  swon; 
eneni)' — you  were  very  ready  to  destroy  the  old  man's  com- 
fort for  ever,  but  you  had  no  notion  that  you  were  risking 
your  own — and  now  you  have  found  it  out,  you  are  sorry 
for  it." 

The  woman  bowed  her  head  in  deep  feeling,  as  if  she 
would  say — "  I  am  answered,  I  deserve  this ;"  and  b'^fora 
Spellacy  could  add  another  word,  the  knocking  at  the  door 
was  repeated.  Softening  the  effect  of  his  last  speech  with 
a  few  words  of  rough  kindness,  and  charging  her  not  to  ne- 
glect his  injunction,  he  hastened  through  the  same  door  b) 
which  Kumba  had  takeu  his  departure. 


324  suii.  DirjT, 


CHArXER  V. 

"  Who  puts  a  douVilet  on  a  horse— 

Or  on  a  man  a  saddle — 
Or  cliips  a  stocking  on  his  head — 

Pure  that  Iran's  brain  is  addle  ! 

Then  let  not  men  ungit'ted  paddle 
In  streams  of  sanetuarv — 

Teiich  withoul  knowleilge — basely  meddle 
With  what  their  heads  can't  carry." 

Cobbler  of  Preston. 

Mrs.  Speu.acy  hurried  to  admit  the  company.  The  old 
Palatine  first  entered,  and  was  closely  followed  by  his  com- 
panion, the  preacher,  whose  inmiense  proportions  darkened 
the  doorway  so  completely  as  to  leave  little  opportunity,  for 
the  moment,  of  observing  or  acknowledging  the  courtesy 
with  which  they  were  both  received  by  the  good  lady. 

"  Fence  be  on  this  house  !"  said  the  preacher.  "  Wo- 
man, what  have  you  for  dinner  ?" 

"Travellers  I  brought  yon,  Mrs.  Spellacy,"  said  the 
poor  scholar.  Then  apart  to  her,  "  Tell  Suil  Dhuv  I  gev 
de  note  to  Miss  Byrne's  man." 

Abie  Switzer's  salutat.'on  wns  a  mute  nod,  and  a  most 
extraordinary  contortion  of  the  face,  which  he  would  ))er- 
haps  have  been  surprised  to  hear,  was  more  like  a  griu 
than  a  smile. 

"  Come,  come,  my  cood  woman,  stir  yourself  a  little," 
said  the  old  Palatine  ;  "  get  these  gentlemen  something 
to  amuse  themselves  with  as  they  desire — and  show  me  to 
a  room,  where  1  may  lie  at  full  length  for  half  an  hour  ; 
my  old  bones  ore  aching  with  fatigue." 

The  woman  glanced  listlessly  from  one  to  another  of 
the  speakers,  while  her  thouglits  were  evidently  yet  wan- 
dering after  those  who  had  just  de[)arted,  and  whose  con- 
versation, overheard  as  it  luid  been,  contained  matter  of, 
to  her,  a  far  more  absorbing  interest.  Tiie  Pahitine  waa 
obliged  to  repeat  his  n  (|ucst  for  a  separate  chamber. 


THE  COINER.  32i) 

*'The  parlour  is  tins  way,  sir,"  she  replied,  still  abstract- 
edly— "there'.'?  an  old  bed  in  it,"  And  having  placed  the 
materials  of  a  plain  dinner  on  the  table,  in  a  manner  so 
careless  and  absent,  as  to  draw  down  some  very  sevei'e 
though  silent  reprehensions  from  her  sectarian  gnest,  with 
respect  to  her  total  inaptitude  for  her  calling — she  conducted 
Mr.  Segur  into  the  room  to  which  she  had  pointed.  The 
preacher,  unwiling  to  leave  any  portion  of  his  time  unoccu- 
pied, set  himself  with  a  very  commendable  industry  to  com- 
plete the  dinner  arrangements — observing  wittily,  that  "  the 
beef,  for  country  beef,  was  very  passable" — while  Abie  w  ent 
to  look  after  the  horses  ;  and  their  thin-faced  guide,  Avhose 
5nances  obliged  him  to  wait  the  summons  of  his  superior, 
before  he  ventured  to  incur  the  expense  of  so  unusual  a 
luxury  as  a  good  dinner,  sat  by  the  tire,  rubbing  his  hands, 
and  directing,  in  the  intervals  of  some  snatches  of  merry 
talk,  a  glance  of  intense  interest  and  admiration  townrils  the 
board  where  the  worthy  preacher  was  signalising  himself  by 
a  display  of  really  extraordinary  prowess — wati-hing,  as  a 
well-regulated  house-dog  might  be  expected  to  do,  every 
mouthful  of  provision  that  was  sacrificed — following  it  with 
his  eyes  from  tlie  dish  to  the  pi  ite — fiom  the  plate  to  the  fork 
— undergoing  the  stimulating  application  of  niust;a-d  and  salt 
— then  the  didicious  ablution  in  th-e  lake  of  rich  gravy — and 
subsequently  in  its  upward  flight,  until  it  disappt'ared  behind 
the  ivory  portcullis  of  the  hero  of  the  board — while  the  ob- 
server's own  jaws  opened  and  shut  with  an  involuntary  and 
sympathetic  action — closing,  however,  like  those  of  a  Shc.ca- 
bac,  upon  a  vision  of  unsubstantial  air. 

"  AVhere's  de  little  master  ?"  he  at  length  exclaimed,  look- 
ing gaily  about  him,  as  the  lucky  thought  suggested  itself 
— "  Ha,  are  you  dere,  sir  ?  are  you  ?  High  jockey  !  here 
sir,"  stretching  out  his  arms  to  a  fine,  sturdy  little  boy,  who 
came  crowing  and  tottering  from  an  inner  room.  "  Deie 
he  was — dere  he  was — do  tief!  Come  here  now, — ride  a 
cock  horse ! — here — put  your  foot  upon  my  toe — ^ive   me 


n20  SUIL  DHUV, 

de  hands — de  two  little  fiit  paws  de  wor! — dnt's  it!  Up 
we  go.  Hoo-ee  hoo-ee!  heigh  jockey — lio  !  ho-ho-ho-ho! 
Dat's  it.  Sit  down  here  upon  ray  linee. — Cetchee!  Cetdiee! 
Cetchee  !  0  de  'eetle  tief  he  was — and  de  'ittle  fat  neck 
he  had — and  de  two  blue  eyes,  lil<e  de  moder — two  beauty- 
tid  eyes — Creep  mouse — creep  mouse — 0  !  ho-ho-lio-ho  ! 
Come,  where's  de  song?  Come,  now — stopde  laugh,  and 
give  us  de  song.  Come  on — sing — don't  be  afeerd  o'  do 
gentleman — open  de  'ittle  mouth  and  sing — 

"  My  fatlier  died,  I  don't  know  how  ; 

He  left  me  a  sixpence  just  to  guide  de  plough. 

Wit  my  whim  wham  waddle,  O  I 

Jack  straw  straddle,  0  ! 

Tretly  boy  bubble,  0  1 
Under  de  broom." 

Mr.  Shine  here  fonnd  sufficient  time,  while  occupied  in 
transferring  tlie  fourth  reinforcement  of  cold  roast  mutton 
from  the  disli  to  his  phue,  for  an  observation — 

"■  The  infant  memory  of  that  child,"  he  said,  "  might  be 
stocked  witli  words  of  greater  pi'ofit,  than  tliose  idle  rhyuies  " 
Ttien  after  a  pause — '■  Some  of  the  steeple  divines  think 
otherwise :  to  wit,  that  member  of  the  esta'Dlislied  church, 
who,  at  a  very  late  period,  excited  so  great  a  sensation  in 
the  metropolis  of  the  kingdon),  by  his  strenuous  opposition 
to  the  introduction  of  the  brazen  coinage,  for  the  patent  had 
been  accorded  unto  the  niau.  Wood.  I  allude  to  a  man  of 
whom  you,  in  your  station,  may  be  ignorant — the  dean,  as 
he  is  enlitled  by  those  of  his  belief,  of  St.  Patrick's  Church 
— Jonathan  Swift — who  hath  employed  a  portion  of  time 
which  he  might  nave  turned  to  far  better  uses,  in  compos- 
ing certain  ridioulous  verses  for  the  service  of  the  nursery 
— replete  with  nothing  salutary  or  instructive."  l^y  this 
time  the  Loctor  had  replenished  the  plate  whieh  was  before 
him  ;  but,  unwilling  to  leiincpiish  the  subject  upon  which  he 
had  launched — he  continued  speaking,  inteirupting  himself 
at  each  of  the  breaks,  thus wiiich  follow,  in  his  speech, 


THE  COINER.  327 

for  the  purpose  of  administering  yrt  fiirtlier  consol.ition  to 
the  interior — "  uoihingsi.liitary  or  insiructive — but  tnrmcd 
altogeiher  of  a  certain  absurd  and  iioubeiisical  combinatiou 
of  unmeaning  terms — to  wit : 

'Here  we  go  up,  up,  up  

And  here  we  go  down — down — downy- 
Here  we  go  backward  and  forward — 
And heigh  for  Dublin  towny — ' 

and  tlie  like.     And   this — this  is  the  man 

who  lias  all  'Dublin  to>vny' — to  use  his  own  ridicu- 
lous phrase,  congregated  in  his track,  with  shouts 

and  apphiuses  which  tliey  M'ould  not  accord  to  SAvedenboig 
himself,  if  he  sojourned  anion ji;st  them — " 

"  Gondoutha  !"  interposed  the  apparently  edified  and 
admiiing  guide. 

"For  my for  my  part — I  am  of  opinion,  that.. 

my  lord  Carteret,  with  all  his  worldly  civility,  will 

make  the  dean  ri'pent  his  6ro2e?4  interference  in so 

unclerical  an  aff'iir.  Fu*  I  am  convinced  by  the  i-epcrt  of 
Isaac  Newt  in,  though  he  diiier  fi'oni  me  on  many  points  of 
faith,  as  one  by  his  othce  in  the  mint  necessarilv  skilled  in 
all  varieties  of  metal  coins  and  medals — that  the  man 
Wood  hath  worihily  apjiroved  iiis  irust." 

"  0,  dcre  is  no  doubt  o'  dat,"  said  the  guide,  tossing 
his  head  in  the  mannci-  of  one  who  speaks  of  a  thing  assin\d 
— then  resting  liis  head  on  the  soft  n  ck  o:  the  child,  and 
turning  Ids  eyes  downwards  towards  the  lire,  l.e  hummed,  in 
a  very  low  murmuring  key,  the  following  words  of  a  ballad 
then  popular  in  a  certain  part  of  Ireland — and  which,  iu 
all  prob.ibility,  some  ot  my  readers  may  recognise : — 

'  Ojine  hidd  r  and  try, 

I'll  teaili  you  to  buy 
A  pot  o'  goud  ale  fur  a  fardeu— 

Coii.e — netpiuce  a  score, 

I  ask  you  no  more, 
And  a-jifj  fjr  de  Drai)er  and  Ilardlng  F 


323  suiL  Dnuv, 

Mr.  S'liine's  eyes  1iri=t  dilateJ  in  astoniMiment.,  and  tlien 
contracted  with  as  mudi  of  darkening  scrutiny  as  the  fleshy 
protuberances  around  tiicm  could  be  made  to  assume,  upon 
his  humble  companioD.  It  may  be  usfful  to  say,  that  the 
preacher's  opinions  on  Wood's  celebrated  brass  coinage — a 
subject  of  which  he  knew  no  more  tiian  it  \\  as  impossible 
for  any  but  a  deaf  man  to  avoid  learning — were  entirely 
modelled  from  Ids  re'igious  iuiluences — and  he  needed  no 
more  than  the  whispered  report  which  had  readied  liim  of 
the  name  of  the  real  author  of  the  Drapier's  letters — to  de- 
cide liis  judgment  at  owe,  and  array  all  the  little  argnmeut 
he  possessed  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  question.  Few 
oyiftortunities,  however,  Avere  afforded  of  achieving  any- 
thing like  a  triumph  for  his  gratuitously  as-sumed  opinions 
in  his  converse  with  the  city  people,  every  one  of  wliom 
was  as  familiar  with  every  possible  hue  and  form  of  the 
subject  as  with  the  faces  of  his  family.  It  w;;s  something 
hke  a  gratification  to  him,  tlierefore,  to  light  upon  even  this 
poor  youth,  whom  he  easily  cab  ulatxl  on  impressing  with 
what  opinion  he  pleased,  and  from  whom,  in  this  wild  re- 
gion, i;e  did  not  certainly  expect  to  meet  with  this  gentle 
sneer — indica'ing  at  once  a  superior  acquaintance  with  the 
subject,  and  a  settled  conviction  in  the  other  way. 

The  lad  did  not  ajipear  to  observe  t'le  effect  which  he 
had  produced  on  the  mind  of  the  preacher,  but  recom- 
menced his  noisy  play  with  the  lively  child,  whom  he  s;ill 
held  on  his  knee — intermingling  the  "  combination  of  un- 
meaning and  ridiculous  terms"  with  sundry  sly  hints,  which 
womM  have  snccec'ed  even  with  the  p'.ilegmatic  Doctor,  if 
they  had  been  addressed  to  him  at  a  le>s  iiue/csting  mo- 
ment : — 

"  Look  at  de  gentleman—  now — do — who  is  dat  ?  who 
is  dat  dcre  ?  Whnt's  dat  ?  what  do  you  say  ?  0  you 
tief !  He's  aien  all  de  beef  and  de  mutton  intircly,  is  he  ? 
0,  have  manners,  master  !  0  tie,  sir!  Av  he  afcs  de  mut- 
ton, he  has  de  money  to  pay  lor  it,  and  dat's  wliat  he  got 


THE  COIXEE.  329 

be  his  leaiTien' — be  liis  miiiden  Ids  A,  b,  ab — an*  l)is  e,  b, 
eb, — aa'  liis  b,  a,  ba — and  liis  b,  e,  bay — ;ind  every  whole 
tote  dat  way.  And  do  you  mind  'em,  sir,  an'  you'll  be 
like  him,  haven'  money  to  spend  for  what  you  like  best,  ;tnd 
enoof  o'  dat  to  lave  for  the  smart  boy  dat  would  be  showeu' 
you  over  de  wild  mountain  in  an  eveuen',  and  would  be 
liungiy  for  his  dinner  may  be,  and  not  haven'  de  price  of  it 
in  his  pocket — so  he  wouldn't — " 

Although  no  impression  was  yet  produced  by  these  ma- 
noeuvres, which  could  be  discerned  on  the  equable  and  dis- 
tended countenance  of  the  preacher,  it  is  impossible  to  say 
with  \\  hat  success  they  might  liave  been  ultimately  attended, 
liad  not  a  new  and  most  startling  interruption  cut  short 
the  design  of  the  operator.  A  scream — wild,  fiercing,  and 
sj)irit-riving — sucli  as  might  be  imagined  of  the  possessed, 
whose  heart  was  torn  by  the  departing  fiend  at  ti:e  com- 
mand of  Him  whom  "  they  knew," — one  long-continued 
aiid  shrilly  note  of  sudden  agony  rung  through  the  house, 
and  transfixed  the  hearing  of  its  inmates.  The  young  man 
quickly  put  down  the  child,  and  started  to  his  feet.  P]ven 
the  fat  Shine  followed  the  example,  and  sprung — no — clam- 
hered  to  a  standing  posture — his  eyes  staring  and  p'-o- 
truded — and  his  fair  rosy  hue  changed  to  a  piirple-jja'.e — 
one  hand  grasping  the  back  of  the  hay-bottomed  chair,  and 
the  other  elevating  a  fork,  on  the  points  of  which  th«  un- 
tasted  particle  of  roast  meat  remained  impaled.  The  sound 
Avhich  occasioned  their  alarm  proceeded  from  the  chamber 
into  which  the  landlady  and  Mr.  Segur  had  retired. 

Suddenly,  and  with  the  rapidity  of  thought,  the  figure  of 
the  woman  was  seen  darting  through  the  still  open  door. 
She  cast  one  swift  and  shuddering  glance  behind  her,  again 
darted  forward — struck  her  bosom  with  a  maniac  violence 
— looked  wildly  around  her,  like  one  in  search  of  some  place 
of  swift  concealment — gaped  on  the  two  astonished  gursts 
— on  the  child — pressed  her  expanded  hand  on  her  biow 
— ou  her  heart — sighed  heavily  and  repeatedly — -tossed  back 


330  SUIL  DKUV, 

her  hair  from  about  her  face — then  clasped  her  haa  ^s  to- 
gotlier — wrung  them  above  her  head — and  with  a  renewed 
scream  of  anguish,  if  possible  more  harrowing  than  the  last, 
dashed  herself  head'ong  ag.iinst  the  closed  door  of  the  bed- 
room on  the  opposite  side.  It  yiekhid,  with  a  crash  of 
wrenched  and  flittered  latches,  to  the  wild  assault,  and  she 
disappeared  in  the  darkness. 

For  a  few  moments  all  again  was  perfect  stillness.  The 
preacher  and  his  companion  remained  staring  on  one  another 
in  all  the  helplessness  of  astonishment  and  ignoran(  e.  and 
the  child  gazed  in  anxious  silence  from  one  to  anothir,  un- 
til at  length,  unable  to  account  in  any  way  for  this  unusual 
conduct  in  its  mother,  the  little  creature  set  up  a  passionate 
clamour  of  tears  and  lamentations,  which  in  a  little  time  re- 
called them  to  their  senses.  Both  turned  their  eyes  on  Se- 
gur,  who  now  made  his  appearance  at  the  door  of  the  par- 
lour, with  a  countenance  of  still  more  vivid  alarm  and  asto- 
nishuicnt  than  they  seemed  themselves  to  feel ;  as  if  ex- 
pecting from  him  some  explanation  of  the  mystery  which 
perplexed  them. 

Nr.t'  ing,  however,  wa-  revealed  in  the  series  of  inquiries 
which  ensued.  The  old  man  was  as  ignorant  of  the  cause 
of  (he  poor  woman's  agitation  as  thote  who  were  in  the 
outir  room.  lie  had  flung  him-ell  on  the  bed,  aficr  shortly 
Conversing  with  her  on  some  intliffercnt  sulject,  in  the  couise 
of  which  she  had  evinced  a  great  deal  oi'  listlessness  and 
inatteuiion.  AVearied  as  he  liad  been,  he  was  in  the  act  of 
dozing  before  she  left  him,  and  while  she  was  yet  occupied, 
as  he  believed,  in  some  arrangement  at  another  end  of  tiie 
room,  when  that  piercing  cry,  the  effect  of  which  on  hia 
hearing  he  could  compare  to  nothing  Lss  than  the  pass'ng 
of  a  small  sword  tlm.ngh  his  brain,  stnrtlcd  him  from  his 
s'uuiber.  As  he  sjirung  Irom  his  bed  and  gazed  around  him, 
he  bchuld  the  woman  in  the  act  of  flitting  througii  the  door- 
way, with  the  same  frantic  action   whieh  had  amazed  the 


THE  COINER.  331 

gncsts  in  the  onter-cliambcr.     Ami  this  was  all  the  iiifor' 
mation  wliich  he  could  give  them  on  the  siibjecr. 

"An  apparrislain  she  seen,  I'll  go  bail,"  said  the  guide. 

"Truce  with  your  levity,  fellow,"  said  the  Palatine,  with 
a  sternness  which  at  once  banished  the  smile  from  the  other's 
counteniince,  and  drew  forth  an  humble  apology.  Tiien 
turning  toward  the  still  open  door  of  the  bedroom,  he  con- 
tinued— "  I  am  unwilling  to  let  the  aflair  rest  here.  The 
cood  woman  may  do  herself  a  misehief." 

"  0  don't,  sir — don't — lor  the  bare  life  !"  said  the  lad, 
i:i  a  loud  and  earnest  whisper,  as  he  saw  Segur  moving  to- 
ward the  bedroom.  "  I  know  the  place  and  her  ways  bet- 
ter, and  I'll  see  after  her  meself." 

lie  was  prevented  by  the  re-entrance  of  the  woman. 
She  stood  a  moment  at  the  door,  gazed  firmly,  with  an  ex- 
pn  ssion  of  devouring  inquiry,  successively  on  each  of  the 
travellers,  and  then,  in  slcnce,  and  with  t!ie  unconscious 
lofiincss  of  carriage  into  which  the  humblest  and  gentlest 
n;  tur.  s  may  be  struck  by  the  application  of  some  powerful 
excitation,  she  put  her  extended  hiind  against  the  breast  of 
the  youth,  removed  him  from  her  way,  and  walked  forward 
slowly,  and  with  a  steadines:?,  in  which  only  tlieir  observa- 
tion of  her  movements  during  the  previous  scene  could  en- 
able the  behold  rs  to  distinguish  the  calmness  of  high- 
v/rought  passion,  governed  and  restrained  by  its  own  energy, 
from  the  repose  of  a  spirit  jjerteclly  at  peace. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon  for  disturbing  you,  sir,"  she  ^aid  to 
Segur,  "and  1  would  not  have  done  so  if  I  could  have 
heliied  it,  but  this  yuuti; — "  laying  her  hand  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  jioor  sch  jlar,  while  she  continued  gazing  on  S.'gur — 
"this  youth  k  lows  my  intirn)ity.  Will  you  sleep  again? 
The  fooTf-tcps  of  a  mouse  shall  not  disturb  you.  Sl/ep, 
and  1  will  sit  on  the  threshold  of  your  door  myself,  and 
watch  every  stir  and  motion  about  the  Louse  till  yt>u  wake." 

''  I  tliaiik  you  very  much,"  said  the  old  man,  a  little 
touched  by  the  earnestness  of  her  apo  o^y,  "  but  there  is  no 


332  £UiL  DHirv', 

occri-ion  for  so  much  care.  I  nm  used  to  li.ird  bods  and 
rough  usnge  enough,  so  tliat  I  can  promise  m^'self  a  very 
sound  sleep  if  I  were  sure  of  hearing  no  more  such  n!usic 
as  that.'* 

"They  shall  tear  my  heart  out  before  you  hear  a  mnr- 
niur,"  said  the  poor  woman.  "  Do — take  your  rest — sleep 
— ar.d  see  this — see !"  plucking  a  huge  Avoollen  cloak  from 
the  back  of  Mr.  Shine,  dragging  it  impatiently  through  the 
hands  of  the  latter,  without  seeming  to  bestow  a  thought 
on  him  as  he  made  a  slight  effort  to  retain  his  property — 
'■■  See  !  I  will  spread  this  over  you  when  you  lie  dov.n,  and 
I'll  draw  the  little  dimmity  curtain  between  you  and  the  win- 
dow, to  keep  tlie  light  from  your  eyes — and  I'll  watch  by 
your  bed  side  if  you  wish,  and  I'll  not  cry  out  again  if  my 
heart  was  on  fire." 

"  Nay,  n:;y,  my  cood  woman,  you  are  perfectly  welcome 
to  act  as  you  please,  if  you  should  be  used  so  hardly  as 
that;  but  give  iNlr.  Shine  iiis  coat  again  for  I  don't  w^ail  it." 

''Let  him  stand  in  his  fat  garment  of  fle-^h,"  said  the  wo- 
man, Avith  a  tone  of  bitter  contempt;  '-let  him  sit  there  in 
the  midst  of  his  own  mountain  of  gross  substance,  built  on 
his  bones  out  of  lean  fools.  The  raw  wind  that  pierces  the 
marrow  of  the  old  man,  might  bluster  and  chafe  upon  that 
heated  and  shaking  lump  of  earth  without  duiiig  any  more 
harm  than  v/arming  and  quickeiiing  the  nd  curients  within 
it,  while  yours  were  frozen  and  ckiven  back  upon  your  old 
heart." 

"  I  desire,  woman,"  said  Segur.  greatly  offended,  "  that 
you  will  do  as  you  are  directed ;  and  it  would  become  you, 
unfortunate  creature,  to  obtain  the  forgiveness  of  that  wor- 
thy man,  for  the  prufane  insolence  of  which  you  have  been 
guilty."' 

In  the  instant,  and  before  the  last  word  had  passed  the 
lip  of  the'speaker,  the  cloak  was  replaced  on  the  shoulders 
ot  the  bewildered  Sldne,  while  the  woman,  with  a  tremb- 
ling and  officious  eagerness,  fastened  it  about  his  neck, 


THE  COINER.  S33 

clasped  hor  hands,  and,  sinking  at  his  feet,  solicited  his 
pardon  with  so  rapid  and  affecting  a  cl'.ange  of  tone  and 
manner,  and  such  a  repentant  vehemence  of  action,  that 
tlie  great  cheeks  of  the  doctor  (\\lio  like  most  fat  men  had 
his  proportion  of  good-nature)  shook  with  emotion,  and  his 
eyes  g'istened  v  ith  moisture,  as  he  was  about  to  pat  her 
on  the  head,  with  a  word  of  encouragement  and  forgive- 
cess.  The  intention,  however,  Avas  as  much  as  the  peni- 
tL^nt  seemed  to  require,  for  she  instantly  sprung  to  Iicr  feet 
a.iain,  turned  her  back  on  the  doctor,  as  if  no  such  person 
were  in  existence,  and,  1-aying  her  hand  on  tiie  arm  of  the 
old  man,  hurried  him  into  the  parlour. 

The  preacher  turned  round,  while  his  eyes  were  still  di- 
rected in  amazement  toward  the  parlour,  to  the  thin-fiiced 
lad.  He  found  the  latter,  however,  had  been  much  more 
profitably  occupied  than  in  attending  to  the  preceding 
scene.  He  liad  slipped  quietly  into  the  preacher's  chair, 
and  busied  himself  witii  the  ntmost  eagerness  in  complet- 
ing the  task  A\hich  the  oiher  had  kft  unfinished 

"  Eat,  friend,"  said  the  preaclier,  after  pausing  and 
staring  on  the  lad  for  a  few  moments,  "  eat,  and  be  tilled. 
I/.'t  no  resp'.ct  of  persons  iiLash  or  trouble  } ou  in  the  per- 
formance of  a  ne  dful  duty." 

There  was  little  occasion  for  the  advice.  The  lad  did 
not  even  suspend  his  operations  to  sny  a  word  of  acknow- 
ledgment, but  merely  nodded,  steadily  returned  the  stare 
of  the  honest  divine,  and  made  a  kind  jf  soldier-like  saluie 
with  the  knife,  as  he  was  about  to  plunge  it  once  more 
into  the  nut-brown  surface  of  the  rati,  in  the  side  of  which 
iie  had  speedily  effected  an  excavation  that  attracted  the 
adm'ration  e\  en  of  Shine  himself. 

i;o:h  reaiained  gazing  on  one  another  in  sSlncc  for  a 
few  minutes,  when  a  third  mute  made  his  app'aiance  oa 
the  scene.  Mr.  Shine's  attention  was  first  attracted  to  him 
Dy  the  aciiou  of  the  young  guide.  Tlie  latter  suddenly 
suspended  his  operations  at   the  board,   started  from  his 

T2 


334  suiL  Diiuv, 

seat,  looked  full  on  the  stranger,  no'liled  Ids  head  towards 
Shine,  slapped  his  pocket,  tossjd  his  hands  higli  above  his 
heaJ,  and  darted  by  the  man  toward  the  back-door,  tlie 
same  by  which  Kumba  and  t^pellacy  had  departed,  and  by 
which  tliis  new  comer  had  enteied.  As  he  stood  on  the 
th'reshold,  half  out,  half  in,  he  snid,  in  a  jeering  tone: 

''  Well !  you'll  not  part  the  'i^iti?" 

"  Aih  ?" 

"  Aih,  yourself!     AVon't  you  part  the  ingits  ?" 

"Och! Noa!" 

The  door  was  instantly  slapped  to  by  the  departing 
gu'de  \\itli  a  burst  ot  contcmi'tuous  laughter. 

Shine  now  gazeJ  on  the  stranger.  He  was  an  exceed- 
higly  tall,  awkwardly  constructed  fellow — presenting,  as  he 
stood  bolt  upright  near  the  door,  returning  Shine's  open 
stare  with  an  air  of  peifectly  stupid  sheepishiiess,  his  long 
gaunt  arms  hanging  before  him,  and  his  bony,  coarse,  and 
huge-knuckled  iingers  emp'oyed  in  beating  time  upon  the 
iront  of  a  patched  and  glossy  pair  of  c^^rduroy  "  small- 
cljtlies" — pies  uiing,  we  say,  a  picture  of  helpli'i-s  and 
anxious  stupidity,  which  pcrliaps  could  not  approach  a  ^hade 
neariT  to  thj  vi-rge  of  positive  idiotcy  than  it  cid ;  ai;d 
which,  bv  the  very  lingering  hue  of  re.ison  ^hich  formed 
tlie  distinc  ion,  was  nn  re  striking  and  pitiable  iu  its  effect 
than  tlie  absolute  consummation  of  imbeei  iiy  would  have 
been. 

"  Who  was  that  left  us,  friend  ?"  said  Mr.  Shine,  after 
having  perfectly  s  itisKed  his  curiosity  by  a  perusal  of  tlie 
strange  ligare  and  features  of  the  virion  that  was  thus  un- 
expect  dly  conjured  up  before  him.  "  Do  you  know  that 
youth  ;•" 

"  Is  it  Awney  Farrel  you  mane  ?  To  be  sure  I  do.  He's 
a  kind  o'  sarviut  and  coiumerade  o'  mine."  And  peering 
on  the  preacher  thiougli  his  bei'tiing  eyebrows  with  that  air 
ol  low  cunning  which  becomes  the  coiinteu  u:ce  of  a  lool  aa 
gracefully  as  vuuge  would  the  cheek  of  a  corpse,  he  sauntered 


THE  COINER.  335 

in  a  shambling,  awkward  p;ait  toward  the  chimney  co-ncr, 
where  he  took  his  seat  on  the  hob,  spread  his  great  skeleton 
hands  before  the  blazf,  and  clattered  thcni  together  occa- 
sionally, in  the  v;iin  effort  to  bring  back  the  blood  ihto  their 
rigid  and  obstructed  channels. 

Presently,  the  preacher  being  still  occupied  in  a  wonder- 
ing perusal  of  the  person  and  action  of  the  stranger,  he  drew 
fi'om  the  breast  of  his  gray  frieze  coat  a  small  piece  of  a 
ye'low  shining  metal,  m  hich  the  active  mind  of  the  f jrmer, 
assisted  by  many  wavering  recollections  of  the  regal  evi- 
dences frequ'.'utly  discovered  in  the  wildest  bogs  and  quar- 
ries of  the  country  of  its  former  wealth  and  splendour,  in- 
stantly stamped  with  the  authority  of  gold.  He  was  not 
Induced  to  change  his  opinion  by  what  followed. 

"  I'm  a  poor  man,"  said  the  stranger,  "  and  in  Avant  o' 
mains  to  carry  me  to  my  own  people,  down  near  Dublin  ; 
an'  I'm  told  I  have  more  than  the  worth  o'  my  expenses  in 
this.  I  think  it's  nothing  but  Jbrass,  but  more  tells  me  it's 
raal  gold.    May  be  you'd  look  at  it,  sir  ?" 

Shine  examined  the  metal,  and  satisfied  himself  to  his 
gre  it  astonishment,  that  it  was  inJeed  an  ingot  of  pure 
gold. 

"  It's  brass,  isn't  it,  sir?"  repeated  the  stranger,  wliohal 
been  anxiou§ly  glancing  from  the  ingot  1 1  the  preacher's 
eyes,  while  the  latter  was  estimating  the  value  of  the  metal. 

"  What  is  your  name,  friend  ?"  asked  Shine,  eluding  the 
query. 

"  My  name  ?"  echoed  the  man  distrustfully — "  Oh,  what 
has  that  to  say  to  the  ingot  ?" 

"  Why  are  you  unwilling  to  tell  me  ?" 

"  If  I  thought,"  said  the  stranger,  pausing  for  some  time 
in  a  mood  of  stolid  deliberation — "  that  I'd  be  safe  to  tell 
yo:i — and  indeed  by  the  looks  o'  you,  I  think  I  would." 

"  You  may  depend  upon  me,"  said  his  companion. 

'•  May  I  ?  Oh,  well  sui-e  that's  enough  to  satisfy  any  bod  v. 
My  name  is  Mac  O'Neil.    An' if  I  thought  it  safe — bur  sure 


L 


o3G  SUIL  DHUV, 

you  say  it  is — I'd  tell  you  where  a  great  deal  more  o'  the 
same  kind  might  be  had." 

The  person  accosted  felt,  at  the  same  time,  a  deep  emo- 
tion of  pity  for  the  simplicity  of  the  owner  of  the  treasure 
— and  a  strong  temptation  to  render  him  an  object  of  still 
greater  compassion,  by  making  his  own  nse  of  the  intelli- 
gence he  should  convey.  He  encouraged  him  therefore  to 
proceed,  and  Maney  Mac  O'Ntil,  after  sundry  misgivings, 
ventured  to  make  the  confidence  he  asked. 

"  Tiiere'^  some  years  since  I  was  a  'prentice  wid  a  mason 
by  trade — and  one  time  at  Easter,  when  my  master  left 
myself  an  anoder  'prentice,  to  make  a  pair  o'  piers  for  a 
gate  there,  just  hard  by  the  ould  buildings,  an  went  some- 
Avhcreelse\\id  himself — I  was  sarchen  amongthe  ould  ruins, 
to  see  ^.'ould  I  get  some  good  stones  for  the  peers,  when  I 
seen  one  place  just  about  the  big  of  a  door,  an  it  filled  up 
with  the  sort  o'  stones  I  wanted — so  to  \^  ork  I  went,  striven 
to  get  'em  out,  an  taken  'em  along  'id  me  to  my  commerade  ; 
but  before  I  got  passen  the  hidf  o'  them  out,  what  should 
I  see  only  steps  in  before  me,  an  they  goen  down  like  stairs  ! 
\^^ell  an'  good,  af  I  did,  I  went  in  to  see  what  sort  of  a  place 
was  it  that  was  there,  an  whcie  should  the  stejis  be  after 
carrying  me  to,  but  into  tlie  middle  of  a  dark  room  (1  b'lieve 
it's  a  wault  you  call  it,  where  the  gentlemen  puts  their 
friends  when  they  die) — and  what  should  I  find  there,  but 
a  great  panel  of  chests,  or  cofllns,  as  I  thought  they  were 
at  first,  which  they  Avor  not,  being  made  of  iron,  as  I  found 
out  when  I  struck  my  crow  again  'em.  Well,  Avhen  I  found 
that,  I  went  oat  an  stopt  up  the  hole  again,  '  for  fear  any 
one  would  find  it  cut  upon  me,'  says  I  to  myself,  '  until  I 
come  to-night,  and  know  more  about  it.'  Well  an  good — 
when  it  was  dark,  I  cam-e  back  myself,  an'  my  commerade 
along  id  nic,  and  we  went  in  to  the  same  place  Avid  a 
candle  and  a  dark  lantern,  an'  Ave  broke  the  ciiests  Avid  the 
crowbar,  and  Avliat  shduld  we  fi:ii  in  them  (that's  in  one 
of  'ciu),  but  liulc  bais  like  th's  .  showed  you,  piled  a  top 


THE  COIKER.  337 

o'  one  another,  a  yard  high — an'  I  declare  it  T  think  it's 
goold,  eh  ?  though  I  woukln't  give  into  it  before  strangers 
There  was  another  o'  the  chests  full  o'  candlesticks — and 
more  of  'em  wid  crosses,  an'  cups,  an'  rings,  an'  fine  shincn 
stones — so  we  took  'em  all  out  o'  that,  an'  buried  'em  in 
another  place,  in  dread  the  landlord,  if  he  come  to  hear  of 
it,  would  come  down  on  us  wid  the  Royalty  o'  the  place,  an' 
take  every  whole  tote  to  himself.  So  you  won't  tell  any- 
body— only  af  you  had  a  friend  that  would  give  us  a  little 
monies  we'd  give  him  a  bargain — for  I'm  afeerd  to  speak 
to  the  goldsmits  in  Dubhnor  anywhere,  in  dread  he'dclial- 
lenge  us  openly  wid  'em,  and  may  be  all  we'd  get  for  'em 
is  nothing,  an'  to  go  to  jail  besides." 

"  Are  you  willing  then  to  part  with  this  bar  which  I 
hold  in  my  hand  ?"  said  Shine  after  some  hesitation,  during 
which  he  began  to  jingle  a  few  old  pistoles  (a  coin  then 
current  among  others  in  the  country)  in  the  iiapped  pocket 
of  his  waistcoat — the  remnant  of  his  dividend  from  a  lale 
field  collection. 

0,  af  I  got  anything  for  it  that  would  be  worth  men- 
tioning— or  as  much  as  would  carry  me  to — " 

The  speaker  interrupted  himself  in  the  midst  of  the  sen- 
tence, to  gaze  with  dilated  and  Avonderiug  eyes  on  the  ex- 
panded hand  of  Shine,  which  exposed  three  shining  pieces 
— at  the  same  time  that  the  ingot  was  elevated  in  the  other 
in  a  nianner  which  seemed  to  propose  a  choice  between  both, 
to  him  who  owned  the  latter.  The  other,  fool  as  he  was, 
understood  the  action,  but  appeared  to  dislike  the  bargain, 
for  he  snatched  his  ingot,  and  thrust  it  into  his  breast — • 
shutting  his  eyes — and  waving  his  head  in  token  of  refu- 
sal. Shine  placed  another  piece  in  his  hand — Maney  again 
produced  an  ingot,  and  tossed  it  to  the  preacher,  while  he 
gathered  with  his  long,  knobbed  fingers,  the  four  pieces  from 
the  fat  hand  in  which  they  were  placed. 

"  It's  brass,  though,  mind.  It  would  rune  me  av  you 
eaid  otherwise — an'  sua-e  'twouldu't  be  the  case  neither." 

15 


338  SUIL  DHUV, 

Shine  laiiglied,  although  a  slight  qnalm  troubled  his  con- 
science when  he  considered  the  gi-eat  difl'erence  between 
the  value  of  the  article  and  the  price  which  the  fool  had 
consented  to  take  for  it, 

"  I'll  see  you  another  time,  an'  I'll  tell  you  all  about  the 
ould  Abbey  and  uvery  thing,"  said  Maney,  as  he  turned  to 
depart. 

"  You  say  you  have  more  of  these,  friend  Maney  ?"  said 
Shine.  The  fool  nodded  an  assent.  "  You'll  find  me  libe- 
ral," concluded  the  preacher. 

Shine  did  not  at  all  like  the  expression  of  Maney's  eyes 
when  he  Siiid  this.  There  was  an  ugly  light  about  them 
which  made  the  preacher's  heart  sink  witliin  him.  Before 
he  had  time  to  digest  the  half-awakened  inquietude  how- 
ever, the  back-door  again  openec?,  and  Spellacy  entered 
alone. 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  bowed  to  the  Doctor — spoke  to 
Maney  as  to  one  well  known  to  him — and  bade  him  go  re- 
lieve Switzer  from  the  care  of  the  horses — adding  some- 
thing in  a  whisper  which  did  not  roach  the  preacher's  ears. 
Maney  departed,  laying  his  finger  on  his  lips  in  token  of  se- 
crecy, as  he  looked  nt  the  preacher.  Spellncy  went  into  the 
inner  room,  and  Shine  remained  in  the  cliimney-corner,  his 
heart  fluctunting  between  compunction  for  the  knavery  he 
had  been  guilty  of,  gratification  at  his  gain,  and  alarm  at 
riie  recollection  of  Maney's  parting  glance ;  though  an  in- 
different person  could  see  no  further  inference  to  be  deduced 
from  it  than  a  testimony  of  the  great  feebleness  of  conscious 
wrong,  which  it  was  in  the  power  of  natui-al  stupidity  to 
abash  30  easily. 


THE  COIKEE.  839 

CHAPTER  VI. 

It  has  a  strange,  quick  jar  upon  the  ear, 
That  cocking  of  a  pistol,  when  you  know 

A  moment's  space  may  bring  its  mouth  to  beai 
Upon  your  person — two  yards  off — or  so. 

Byron. 

The  evening  hung  heavily  on  Kumba's  hands.  NotAvith- 
standing  the  repeated  disappointments  which  he  had  met 
with  in  the  schemes  devised  by  Spellacy,  the  alternative 
which  he  proposed  to  himself  in  case  of  rejecting  this  final 
one,  was  so  little  in  accordance  with  his  inclinations  that  he 
bad  almost  determined  on  acceding  to  the  latter,  long  be- 
fore the  hour  of  appointment  came,  and  before  he  was  even 
acquainted  with  its  nature.  He  hurried  over  his  solitary 
evening  meal,  but  when  that  was  dispatched,  he  found  that 
it  in  no  wise  accelerated  the  hour  Of  meeting,  which  was 
yet  distant.  He  read  over  the  letter  of  his  mistress's  pa- 
rent, which  stipulated  a  term  of  probation  that  his  impatient 
temper  could  never  have  endured — flung  it  aside — took 
down  his  violin — and  accompanied  it  with  some  words  which 
seemed  melancholy  enough  to  suit  his  own  fortunes ; — 

I. 
The  sally-coop  where  once  1  strayed 

Is  faded  now  and  lonely — 
The  echoes  in  the  leaticss  glade 

Wake  to  the  waters  unlj' — 
My  early  haunts  are  perished  all, 

My  early  friends  departed — 
And  I  sit  in  my  native  hall 

Forlorn  and  broken-hearted. 
II. 
When  last  I  lay  beside  that  stream 

I  dreamt  of  fame  and  splendour, 
And  bliss  was  mingled  with  my  dreaill| 

Domestic,  sweet,  and  tender — 
Now  I  would  give  tiiat  fame  and  all, 

Were  this  soft  starlight  gleaming 
On  my  old  fnends  in  their  old  hall. 

And  I  an  infant  drea!n::^L^ 


540  SUIL  DHUV, 

Tlie  hour  of  appointment  at  length  drew  nigh,  and  he 
repaired  to  llie  Rath  indicated  by  his  companion,  which  was 
made  remarkable  by  one  of  those  table  stones,  or  cromleachs 
— enormous  tabular  masses  of  rock  supported  on  five  or  six 
pedestals  of  the  same  material,  great  numbers  of  which  are 
to  be  met  with  in  various  parts  of  Ireland,  of  Great  Britain, 
and  even  on  the  continent,  and  which  are  supposed  by  some 
antiquaries  to  have  served  the  purpose  of  altars  in  the  cele- 
bration of  the  mystic  rites  of  Odin,  while  the  vulgar  tradi- 
tions of  the  country  represent  them  as  the  rural  dining-tables 
of  the  ancient  gigantic  colonists  of  the  island. 

He  had  not  arrived  many  minutes  before  he  was  joined 
by  Spellacy,  who  appeared  to  labour  under  some  perplexity 
of  mind  as  to  the  course  wliich  he  should  pursue. 

"Mr.  Kumba,"  he  ^^t  length  said,  after  much  hesitation, 
"  to  be  plain  with  you,  if  you  should  not  choose  to  come 
into  my  plan,  it  will  put  my  life  in  your  power,  and  that 
puzzles  me  a  little." 

Kumba  stared  on  him  in  some  surprise.  "  I  am  total'y 
unable  to  conceive  your  meaning,"  said  he,  "  but  on  that 
head,  you  may  be  assured  that  I  am  not  base  enough  to 
avail  myself  of  any  information  by  which  you  may  commit 
yourself." 

"  It  is  enough,  sir,"  said  Spellacy.  "  Follow  me,  if  you 
please." 

They  proceeded  down  the  hillock,  over  a  little  rocky 
rivulet,  into  a  small  dark  copse  of  stunted  elms  and  hazels, 
through  which  an  almost  imperceptible  pathway  overgrown 
with  brambles,"  prishoc-weed,  and  underwood,  conducted 
them  to  the  door  of  a  small  thatched  building,  having  the 
appearance  of  a  stable,  and  connected  with  a  ruined  smithy. 
Spellacy  hastily  pulled  the  string  of  the  latch,  and  admitted 
his  friend  into  a  stable,  which  was  occupied  by  four  stout 
rough-coated  horses,  whose  furniture  hung  against  an  uu- 
cast  wall  of  mud  and  stone  on  the  opposite  side.  The  con- 
dition of  the  animals,  and  the  conilortable  air  of  the  place 


THE  COINER.  3  11 

in  which  they  were  accommodated,  might,  at  a  moment  of 
leaser  interest,  have  excited  the  surprise  of  Kumba,  but  he 
was  now  too  completely  overwhelmed  even  to  exercise  a 
distinct  judgment  on  the  very  circumstance  which  absorbed 
all  his  attention.  A  small  ladder  leading  through  a  narrow 
opening  in  the  boarded  ceiling  to  a  loft  overhead,  was  next 
disclosed  by  his  companion,  who  now  relinquished  his  hold 
and  motioned  Kumba  to  ascend. 

"Stay!  cried  the  latter,  at  length,  "whither  are  we  going?" 
"  Hush  !  no  words  here — at  laste,  talk  smaller  than  that, 
if  you  value  our  lives.     Up,  and  ask  no  questions  !" 

«  But " 

"Hush!  up,  I  say  again!"  Kumba  yielded,  and  they 
ascended." 

"  Xow,  Mr.  Robert !"  said  SpcUacy,  in  a  low  tone,  "  only 
act  like  a  man  for  one  half  hour,  and  you're  made.  Dc 
you  know  where  you  are  ?" 

Kumba  stared  wildly  around  him.  They  stood  in  a  space 
about  four  feet  square,  the  rest  of  the  loft  being  to  all  ap- 
pearance blocked  up  with  hay  and  straw,  except  on  one 
side  near  the  wall,  where  a  fissure  in  the  mass  had  been 
formed,  apparently  by  the  gradual  use  made  of  the  article 
tor  consumption  in  the  lower  apartment.  To  this  narrow 
opening,  Spellicy  beckoned  his  friend,  and  seizing  his  hand, 
as  he  hung  back  in  wondering  hesitation,  drew  him  into  a 
long  passage,  dark,  and  becoming  somewhat  wider  as  they 
advanced.  The  first  intimation  the  young  farmer  received 
of  tbe  nature  of  the  place  to  which  he  was  about  to  be  in- 
troduced, was  conveved  in  a  sound  resembling  the  clink  of 
Siuall  hammers  faintly  heard,  and  an  occasional  murmur  of 
human  voices,  alternated  by  the  creaking  of  some  great 
nir.cliine,  the  working  of  which  caused  a  degree  of  tremu- 
lous insecnrity  in  the  floor  beneath  them.  All,  however, 
was  hu-^h:  d  into  a  perfect  stillness,  the  moment  Spellacy  ap- 
plied his  fingers  to  the  latch  of  a  small  door,  which  yielded 
to  the  etfurt,  and  disclosed  the  interior  of  the  apartment. 


342  SUIL  DHUV, 

"  Chaishin  a  moch  ?"*  was  grumbled  by  a  hoarse  voico 
Lorn  within. 

"/SitiV  Lhuv  /"t  exdaimt'd  the  compaiiiou  of  Kuraba. 

"  G'udhain  ella  ?"J  asked  the  same  vuice. 

Spehacy  made  iio  answer,  but  motiuiied  Kumba  with  his 
hand  to  remain  in  the  daikuess,  where  he  was,  and  passed 
into  the  room.  This,  with  its  inmates,  was  fully  visible  to 
the  latter,  whose  already  excited  brain  wp.s  filled  with  a 
thousand  new  visions  of  terror,  as  his  eye  wandered  over 
the  details  of  a  scene,  with  which  were  associated  even  the 
horrors  of  his  infant  life,  when  the  name  of  the  blood-stained 
gang,  on  the  thrLshold  ol  whose  lair  he  now  stood,  was  used 
to  quell  the  pee\ish  querulousness  of  his  childish  heart — 
and  made  him  cling  with  murmurs  of  dependent  anxiety  to 
the  bosom  of  his  fosterer. 

A  large  fire,  formeu  with  a  mixture  of  culm  and  heavy 
turf,  supplied  the  principal  poriion  of  the  light  by  wliicli 
the  inmates  ot  the  place  were  enabled  to  carry  on  their  se- 
ciet  toil.  Near  the  ceutie  of  the  room,  the  further  end  of 
which  was  almost  completely  enveloped  in  the  evolutions 
of  a  black  and  su'phnrous  smtlio,  was  an  engine  at  work, 
the  whitish  and  wavering  light  of  the  fuinace  revealing,  in 
fitlul  alternations  of  briHi;incy  and  gloom,  the  aged  coun- 
tenance of  the  artificer,  a  white-haired  man,  v  hose  large 
gli^tL'ning  ey.s,  and  hoary,  straight  locks  presented  a 
ghastly  contrast  to  his  suiutted  and  wastid  features.  The 
efi'ect  of  tliis  figure  on  Kumba's  heart  was  such  as  might  be 
occasioned  by  a  siulden  iudic.iiion  of  life  on  the  features  of 
a  mummy.  Around  this  [lersoii  a  nuaiber  of  figures  were 
constantly  flitting  through  the  uncertain  light,  sonic  young, 
soiue  advanced  in  years — the  couuienances  of  all  marked 
with  a  degree  of  sternness  which  could  not  but  be  consi- 
dered as  the  result  of  a  habitual  fciocity  of  temper,  and 
wliich  was  rendered  doubly  forcible  and  repugnant  in  iis 

*  Wlio  is  there  y  t  Tlic  dark-eyed. 

j  is  there  any  one  eLe? 


THE  COINER.  343 

effect  by  the  murk  and  dnsky  hne  wliich  the  features  ha(^. 
acquired  from  the  tiiickencd  atmospjiere  around  them. — 
Kumba  shrank  back  involuntarily  whenever  any  of  their 
eyes  i^appened  to  glance  in  his  direction,  although  a  mo- 
ment's consideration  might  have  satisfied  him  that  he  was 
perfectly  sheltered  from  observation  by  the  darkness  in 
Which  he  stood.  The  men  were,  for  the  most  part,  uncoated, 
the  sleeves  of  their  coarse  and  blackened  bandk-llnen 
shirts  being  tucked  up,  after  the  fashion  of  blacksmiths, 
about  their  shoulders — their  harsh,  brown  chests  half  ex- 
posed, and  their  hands  employed  with  various  tools,  of  tlie 
immcdi;ite  use  of  which  the  unseen  spectator  was  ignorant. 
Notwiihstanding  the  anxiety,  even  approaching  to  teiTor, 
which  made  th.  heart  of  the  latter  knock  fiercely  against 
his  ribs  as  he  gazed  u[)on  the  scene,  and  although  he 
deemed  an  introduction  to  this  fearful  circle  of  desperadoes 
as  little  less  than  a  death-warrant,  he  could  not  resist  the 
emotions  of  that  violent  and  unaccountable  curiosity  wliich 
compels  a  man  so  strongly  to  neglect  all  other  considera- 
tions when  weighed  again.-t  the  opportunity  of  its  gratifi- 
cation, and  Avliich  seems  to  increase  precisely  in  proportinu 
to  the  extent  of  the  danger  which  it  involves.  Heaiiiig 
Spe'lncy  engaged  in  conversation  with  a  number  of  persons 
at  a  little  distance  inside,  and  anxious,  he  thought  not 
wherefore,  to  learn  the  purport  of  their  cctnversation,  he  be- 
gin  to  meditate  a  nearer  approach.  A  heap  of  tiu'f,  gra- 
dually ascending  to  the  veiy  roof,  and  extending  several 
feet  into  the  room,  appeared  to  aflbrd  the  best  means  he 
could  desire  of  accompHshing  this  purpose.  He  crept  cau- 
tiously up,  trembling  in  all  his  limbs,  as  the  action  of  his 
person  seemed  to  menace  the  unstable  pile  of  peat  sods 
with  a  general  downf'al.  In  a  few  seconds  he  lay  lengthwise, 
within  a  footof  the  thttched  roof,  while  the  knot  of  confabula- 
tors  was  visible  injmeuiaely  beneath  his  eye.  His  friend 
Spellacy,  whom  he  now  surveyed  with  a  new  and  fearful  in- 
terest, since  he  became  invested,  by  his  owti  avowal,  with  all 


344  SUIL  DHDV, 

the  terrible  associations  connected  with  the  name  of  Suil 
Dhiiv,  the  Coiner,  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  gi'oup, 
one  of  whom  was  in  the  act  ofconchiding  a  detail,  which  ap- 
peared to  excite  a  feeling  of  displeasure  and  perplexity  in  tae 
mind  (f  their  leader, 

"  And  tl;at's  the  way  of  it,  just,"  the  fellow  continued, 
throwing  up  his  hands  in  a  hopidess  way,  "  all  at  a  stand 
i'liY  the  wash  to  give  'ein  a  colour.  I  rise  out  of  it  for  a 
bnsine?s  entirely.  I'll  take  a  spade,  like  Jerry  O'Gilvy,  and 
work  a  drass,  av  I  don't  want  to  be  starved,  all  out." 

"  Whist !  yon  innocent !"  said  a  fair-faced  youth  who 
stood  near,  and  saw  the  black  eyes  ot  tlieir  leader  kindle  on 
the  speaker. 

"  Och  'iss — av  I  could  wash  over  a  guinea  be  tollcu  a 
fable  or  an  ould  story,  I  needn't  go  past  2/oit,  I  know." 

"  Where's  Maney  O'Neil's  ingot  ?'  asked  Spcllicy. 

"  0  !  what's  that  Suil  Dhuv  is  talken  of?"  exclaimed  a 
strange  voice  from  a  far  corner.  "  Let  Maney  and  his  'git 
alone,  do  ye.  What  could  ye  make  of  it  in  a  wash,  in  com- 
parison of  what  I  make  of  it  the  way  ye  k;iow  ye'rselves  ? 
Tis  Awney  Farrel  jiut  that  iu  ye'r  heads,  but  he  had  best 
change  his  tone,  the  Dublin  clea'-boy*  that  he  is,  av  he  has 
a  mind  to  stay  iu  my  sarvice." 

"  Was  Awney  out  to-day  ?"  asked  the  old  man  near  the 
engine. 

"  He  was ;  and  I  lieard  a  party  coming  to  the  doir  as  T 
left  the  house,  with  Awney  by  tlieir  side,"  said  Spellacy. 

"  Well,  that's  sometheu  any  way.  What  road  do  tiiey 
take  ?  and  hoAV  many  of  us  is  to  be  on  their  track  ?  And 
how  much  o'  the  money  do  they  look  to  liave  ?  Eh  ?  Tiiat 
Awney  is  a  smart  lad.  With  his  scrap  o'  Lalin  and  his 
cfl-hand  free  an  aisy  way,  he'd  desave  the  airtli." 

"  I'll  arrange  all  tho^e  particulars,  when  I  return  to  the 
inn,"  said  Spellacy. 

*Cltave  or  basket- boy  — in  the  service  uf  the  victuallers. 


THE  COINER.  345 

"  Do  then — nncl  do  somethen  fn-  uz  at  list— as  row  gi^fc 
nz  to  do  uvnry  thing  for  yon.  What  gain  hail^ve  by  blow- 
ing ont  the  brains  of  the  onld  dark  Segnr,  only  pleasing  yon, 
bekays  his  rehition  in  Garmxny  kicked " 

Tiie  sound  of  a  hewy  b!ow  and  a  doep  groan  cut  short 
this  speech,  to  which  Kiimba  was  !en  Ijng  a  terrified  atten- 
tion. 

"  Xow,  mffian  !"  excLiune^l  Snelhcy,  "  have  i/02C  gained 
nothing  ?  I  have  the  use  of  my  ohl  hand  yet,  eh  ?  Take 
him  to  the  far  end  o'  the  room,  one  o'  ye  !" 

The  stunned  and  speechless  wretch  was  instantly  con- 
veyed from  the  circle,  and  a  deep  silence  followed.  Kumba 
listened  with  renewed  anxiety,  aUhough  tlie  qnickne5S  and 
boldness  of  this  assertion  of  his  authoiity  by  Spellacy  con- 
veyed an  immediate  sense  of  security  to  liimself,  whieli  was 
only  qnalilied  by  Ids  awakened  doubts  as  to  the  real  charac- 
ter and  intentions  of  the  man. 

"  There's  no  occasion  for  ye  to  be  looking  at  one  another 
that  way,"  said  Spellacy,  determine  lly.  "  As  I  served  him, 
so  I'll  serve  every  one  of  ye  that  dares  to  question  the 
command  you  yoiirselves  gave  me,  while  there's  a  drop  o' 
blood  in  this  arm," — and  lie  ex'enued  one,  the  rigid  mus- 
cles of  which  worked  like  small  cable*,  as  he  slo'.vly  clenched 
his  tist;  while  he  spoke.  "  Ye'ilmind  my  orders — and  'twill 
be  better  for  ye.     Isn't  that  calf  done  bleating  yet?" 

"He  axes  your  pardon  for  forgetten  himself?"  said  the 
fair-faced  lad,  in  a  soft  and  conciliating  tone.  The  wounded 
man  dissented,  with  a  noise  similar  to  that  short  thick  bark 
which  a  mastiff  gives  in  its  sleep. 

"  I  never  make  words  with  Snil  Dhuv,"  said  the  old 
white-haired  man  near  the  engine,  rising  from  his  place,  his 
limbs  all  siiaking  with  the  palsied  impotence  of  age— -and  a 
horrible  hyena  convulsion,  too  Iri'jiitlul  for  laughter,  min- 
gUng  its  hoarse  and  sudden  peals  witii  a  fit  of  heavy  cough- 
ing and  wheezing,  which  seemed  as  tiiough  it  would  shatter 
bim  momentarily  to  pieces — "  I  never  qiiarril  wit  him  t'ov 
15* 


345  6UIL  DUUV, 

cllndien  abizniz  well— 'tis — 0 — luigh— Intgh  '. — this  chcsl 
o'  mine! — 'tis  the  safest  and  the  surest  course  bv  half. 
That  was  our  word — hugh — hugh — among  the  Rapparees 
of  ould  times — in  my  young — 0  this  back  o'  mine  !  —  hugh 
— hugh  ! — young  days — when  they  used  to  be  laughen  at 
strong  John  Macpharsou*  for  never  passen  a  good  squeeze 
— and  he  coum  to  the  gallows  be  thar  same,  too.  I  seen — 
hugh — hugh  ! — I  seen  him  myself  playen  up  Macpliarson's 
tune,  and  he  goen  to  the  tree.  Ah,  ha,  John,  thought  I 
Avit  meself  (butt  I  said  nothen) — av  you  tuk  the  advice  o' 
Redmond's  lads,  you'd  be  sporten  on  the  highway  still,  in- 
stead o'  bcin'  pluyen  at  your  own  funeral — hugli — hugh  ! 

0  Misthur  darh  n  Suil  Dliuv  !  gi'  me  soinetheu  for  this  cough 
o'  mine  !  Nothen — nothen — t\e  used  all  to  suy  to  Shawn, 
like  a  taste  o'  blood  for  salen  a  matter  up.  I'm  sixty-eight 
years  now  in  the  worLI,  an'  I  never  seen  a  dead  man  mount 
a  witness  table  yit.  Ah  !  never  ir&st  one  of  'em,  Suil  darlen, 
an  '}  ou'il  laugh  at  the  law  all  your  days — an'  the  comfort  ov 
it  too,  whin  you're  used  to  it — aiid — "  here  a  fit  of  cough- 
ing seized  tlie  speaker,  so  violent  and  suffocating,  tliat 
Kumba,  whose  whole  attendon  had  been  fascinated  and  con- 
centrated by  this  display  of  peikct  depravity,  imagined  that 
the  ruthan  had  consununatea  his  iniiueties  in  thepatiiut  ear 
of  liejiven,  and  was  about  to  be  summoned  to  an  instaufc 
and  awful  judgment. 

"  This  cuhu-snioke  that's  klllcn'  me  intirely,"  the  fellow 
continued,  taking  his  seat  at  the  bottom  of  the  very  heap 
of  turf,  on  which  Kumba  lay,  and  causing  it  to  shake  tinder 
hiai,    "No  !  Suil  Dhuv — folly  my  ways.    As  long  as  evet 

1  live,  I'll  kill.  Kill  hrst,  and  rob  after,  is  my  word — and 
I'll  stick  to  it — a\e — always — (J  my  pvor  b.ick,  intire.yi" 

" Poor  deceived  wretch!"  thought  Kumb.i,  an  emotion 
of  great  pity  nuiigling  its^'lf  with  all  his  honor.  "  Loes 
thit)  hoary  viikun,  with  the  red  guile  of  a  life  of  ulood  iipou 

*  A  notoriou.i  Irish  robber. 


THE  COINEH.  347 

his  sniiT — the  nrra  of  an  anoiy  God  made  bnre  above  his 
head, — this  m"39rab1e  crenturp,  tlie  stiings  of  whose  life  ap- 
pear to  be  nil  let  doAvn — with  a  frame  whose  least  motion 
is  almost  sufficient  to  shake  its  structure  to  pieces — who  sits 
tliere  shnkinc;'  and  laiii^Iiincj  and  ready  to  fall  bone  aft:^  bone, 
already  mouldering,  into  the  grave — does  this  idiot  demon 
plan  future  scenes  of  murder  for  himself?  Poor  deceived, 
unhappy  -uTctch  !  This  is  horrible."  And  in  an  emotion 
of  deep  feeling,  such  as  people  of  an  enthusiastic  temper 
and  susceptible  mind  are  liabh  to  experience  at  witnessing 
any  extraordinary  novelty,  eitlier  in  the  moral  or  physical 
■world,  he  clasped  his  hands  together,  and  felt  his  eyes  till, 
and  his  whole  frame  tremble  with  a  wholesome  and  soften- 
ing agitation. 

Immediately,  and  by  one  of  those  startling  bounds  which 
Reason  makes,  when  accidently  fi-eed  from  the  restraint  that 
was  imposed  upon  her  by  passion  and  convenience,  she 
springs  into  her  own  free  dominion,  and  mounts 

"  with  pi-osperous  wing  full  snmmed," 

to  her  real  station  in  the  soul — ascending,  not  by  the  slow 
steps  of  inference  and  deduction,  but  piercingwithoneglanco 
the  mists  which  worldly  interest  have  gathered  around  the 
naked  brightness  of  truth — dashing  aside  at  a  sinale  effort 
the  cobweb  snares  of  her  fal:^e  sister  sophistry,  and  tramp- 
ling and  hurling  downward  in  her  flight  the  loose  and  crumb- 
ling obstacles,  among  which  she  has  been  long  imprisoned 
by  selfish  motive  and  human  re>pcct — in  an  instant — and  by 
a  transition  as  rapid — a  perfect  and  illuminating  change 
Avas  work'd  in  the  soul  of  Kumba.  "While  he  gazed  o  i 
the  old  man,  the  feirfu!  and  terrifying  suggestion  dartel 
through  the  b'-ain,  that  his  was  the  close  of  a  career  com- 
mencing like  his  own.  His  heart  froze  A\ithin  his  bo=om 
— and  then  burned — and  grew  cold  again,  while  a  sudlen 
damp  s'^ood  on  his  brow  and  limbs,  and  his  eyes  became 
riveted  aiRl  fixed  in  spite  of  himsjlf  on  the  hoary  and  pal* 


Oib  SUIL  DHUV, 

sied  murderer — whom  he  began  now  to  look  on  as  a  future 
pelf  of  himself — the  double-goer  of  his  age  ! — a  spectre 
conjured  back  from  the  days  to  come,  for  the  purpose  of 
startling  him,  like  another  Hazael,  Avith  a  reflection  of  liis 
future  soul.  He  clasped  his  hands  once  more  fearfully — and 
lost,  in  the  intensity  of  his  agitation,  a  part  of  the  conver- 
sation which  ensued.  The  first  sound  from  beneath  tliat 
again  fixed  his  attention,  was  the  mention  of  his  own  nnme 
pronounced  in  a  heated  and  passionate  tone  by  Spellticy. 
The  old  man  was  replying,  when  Kumba's  attention  was 
aroused — 

"  0  don't  mind  that,  Suil  Dhuv,  'tis  like  the  dhrams  o' 
whiskey.     Let  him  get  the  taste  of  it  wanst,  an'  see  av  he 
won't  long  fur  it  again.     'Twas  the  same  way  wit  me-e'f 
jest.    The  fimt  blood  I  uver  tuk  was  that  of  a  'ittle  mcus- 
cen  that  bit  me  finger  in  a  mail-tub.     Ah  ha,  fait  my  hid, 
siz  T,  an'  I  not  four  3'ear  ould  the  same  time,   I'll  ha'  my 
rivinge  0'  you  any  way  ;   an*  I  caught  him  be  the  tail  an'  I 
hung  hira   over  the  blaze  of  a  slip  of  bog-dale — ;ind   he 
screech': n  an'  I  laughen'  an'  grinden'  my  teeth  as  it  niiglit 
be  this  way — til!  he  died,  burnt  in  the  blaze — and  my  fa- 
ther laughen'  an'  houlden  me  mrther,  that  was  for  rnnucn' 
and  tairen'  the  'ittle  cratur  from  betune  me  finsrirs."     Here 
a  renewed  convulsion  of  coughing  and  laugliter  seized  tlie 
wretch — "  Then  I  used  to  slit  the  throats  0'  the  chickens  to 
save  the  maids  thethrouble — this  way  wit  the  scissor — and 
aftlier,  I'd  get  one  0'  the  pigs  to  give  'um  a  knock  0'  the 
hatchet  whin  the  butcher  would  come  to  the  house  at  Ais- 
ther  or  Christmas — an'  sometimes,  may  be  I'd  haucih*  the 
stent  cow  fur  him  when  she  wouldn't  stand  steady — I  wish 
/  couM  s'nnd  steady,  now  I  know — 0  millia  murlherl  and 
'tis  /  that  ousihf  to  say  that  !  How  the  butcher  an'  all  of  'em 
laughed  the  fusht  time  when  I  tuk  tlic  sharp  ed^e,  instid  o' 
the  broad  back  0'  the  hatchit —  ha  !  ha  !     'Tw.ts  that  fiist 

•  Divide  it  witli  a  Iviiive  tliL-  lenJuii  Achilhs. 


THE  COINER.  310 

made  'em  put  the  uame  o'  Eed  Rodynpon  me — thongli  it's 
W'liite  Eody  wit  me  now,  any  way,'"  be  concluded,  raising 
Ids  long  silver  hair  with  a  sn  ile  which  had  so  mucii  of  me- 
lancholy  in  it,  as  to  astonish  Kmuba  with  the  conviction 
that  the  haid  and  ungentle  natuie  even  of  such  a  being  as 
this,  was  not  incapable  of  retaining  amid  the  petrifaction  of 
all  its  benevolent  susceptibilities — a  seltish  softness  and  ten- 
derness of  fLeliiig  in  its  own  regard. 

'•  Faugh  !  "What  has  all  this  to  do  wit  the  robben'  o' 
Lilly  Lyme  and  her " 

"  Hush-sh-sh  !''  Spellacy  hastily  interrupted  the  speaker. 

"  For  what  ?  Eh  ?  Who's  there  ?  Are  we  beirayed. 
Ay — do!  strike  me  agin  an'  agin  after  tliat,  if  you  have  a 
mind,  but  I'll  do  my  duly — Have  you  any  body  listnen'  to 
us  ?" 

The  name  of  his  mistress,  pronounced  in  such  ruffian 
fiisl.ion,  occasioned  such  an  agitation  of  rage  and  honor  in 
Kumba's  soul,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  he  restrained  him- 
seh  from  rushi.ig  into  the  midst  of  the  group  and  hazard- 
ing everything  for  an  instant  elucidation  of  the  desi;Lua. 
wiiich  were  under  debate.  Chance  did  for  him  what  pru- 
dence, however,  forbade  his  atiemi.ting.  The  old  man, 
Ilody,  quic'.ly  rising  from  his  seat  at  the  base  of  the  turfcu 
heap,  disluibed  materially  the  already  frail  structure  that 
sustained  the  listener.  A  few  Suds  fell — in  the  ef')rc  to 
prevent  a  further  peiil,  Kumba  siiook  the  whole  fabric  and 
came  tumbling  headlong,  amid  the  ciatter  of  the  falling 
fuel  and  the  savage  yells  of  the  outrageous  gang,  who  staited 
back  from  theeiicle  with  exclamations  of  rage  and  terror. 

'■' Theioni  a-shhien  !  Alauriga  Spy  T*  shouted  one, 
in  a  rapture  of  vengeance. 

"  Uosth  erdhai  fier    dhen  thinna."-f    cried   another, 
springing  on  the  youth  will  a  yell  of  ferocious  anger. 

" Fausccd — )mgh !  hugh  ! — fauscai  vioch  a  nikin  leshai 

*  Give  me  the  knife— Kill  the  Spy  1 
t  Ito^ist  him  ufchiiid  the  live  i* 


350  suiL  Dutrv, 

press  /"*  wheezed  out  Red  Rodj — all  clamouring  together 
in  their  veiiacular  idiom,  in  their  sudden  excitement  of  ihj 
•iiunient. 

"  Cunnidh-a-lauv  !  Esaun-dha  sucur  a  hherom 
lath  .'"I  Sptllacy  suddenly  shouted  out,  in  accents  that 
made  the  floor  shake  beneath  them,  while  he  placed  himself 
in  an  attitude  ot  determined  resistance  between  the  gang  and 
his  p:0itrate  friend,  over  wlioui  Red  llocij  had  uplilted  a 
short  bar  of  iron,  with  a  degree  of  strength  which  nothing 
less  stimulating  than  the  prospect  of  an  immediate  gratify 
cation  of  his  ruling  patsiou  could  have  struck  into  his  pal- 
sied arm. 

'ihere  was  a  pause — while  the  eyes  of  aU  were  directed 
on  their  leader. 

"  Fools,  dolts  !"  he  at  length  exclaimed,  his  round 
black  (yes  sparkling  with  alight  which  might  have  readily 
accounted  to  a  stranger  for  the  cognomen  which  had  been 
confv.ncd  upon  him — "a  brass  pin  would  maAC  me  lave 
him  to  ye,  to  kt  ye  see  what  ye'd  g,  t  by  ye'r  mane  suspi- 
cion ot  one  that's  a  better  friend  than  ye'rselves  to  ye  !  An' 
you,  you  graat  ba-te,  that  nothing  '11  ever  taehe" — address- 
ing the  wounded  man — '•  it's  the  dint  o'  the  bnre  conipa-i- 
sion  that  prevents  me  makcn'  a  mash  o'  your  licad  upon 
the  floor.      Get  up,  Mr.  Kumba,  an'  tell  'em  who  you  are." 

Kumba  arose  and  gazed  around  him.  Tl:e  men  slowly 
relaxed  their  atiitudes  of  rigid  pasJon,  and  old  liody,  lower- 
ing his  we:ipon,  tottered  with  many  discontented  mutterings 
toward  Ills  ancient  place,  near  the  stamping  press. 

"  We  meant  no  harm,"  said  t'.ie  wounded  man  ;  "  but 
there's  little  admiration  we  shouldn't  know  afiindthat  tooai 
that  way,  so  droll,  tumbling  down  ov  a  hape  o*  turf  into  the 
middle  of  us,  all  at  wanst,  out." 

"May  be,"  said  Jerry,  with  a  very  soft  sneer,  "  that's 

•    Scivucze  out  Ill's  l)raiiis  uiih  tlio  press. 
f  Hold  j'our  Ijaiid !  Stop,  1  tell  vou  1 


J 


THE  COINED.  351 

the  way  of  intherducshias  among  the  gliitlemhi,  that  we 
knows  nothen  about  ?" 

It  was  some  moments  be&re  the  young  man  fully  recol- 
lected himself.  When  he  did  so,  all  the  consequences  and 
difficulties  of  his  situation  came  rushing  swiftly  upoa  his  mini  ; 
and  as  he  had  already,  in  one  rajiid  glance  at  the  approach- 
ing possibilities,  determined  upon  his  course,  the  peril  which 
they  involved  made  his  heart  beat  and  treuible  within  him. 
He  felt  himself,  nevertheless,  amid  all  the  gathering  anxiety 
that  began  to  creep  within  his  bosom,  more  at  liberty  to  de- 
bate and  decide  them,  while  he  was  yet  in  comparative 
safetv — fur  there  are  doubtless  many  natures,  whih^  yet  un- 
formed and  undecided,  in  \\  hich  the  elements  of  vigour  and 
energy  are  loosely  scattered,  and  Avhich  require  tlie  impulse 
of  extremity  itself  to  call  them  into  confident  action  ;  as  a 
vane,  that  flaps  from  point  to  point  of  the  compass,  Avhile 
it  is  visited  by  feeble  currents  of  air,  will  firmly  fix  and  set- 
tle when  the  black  tempest  is  poured  about  it. 

AVhile  Kumba  thus  remained,  gazing  upon  the  c^rcle — • 
and  cliarged  (to  use  a  chemical  metaphor)  with  an  intense 
and  imeom_jro'nising  pnrj  ose — his  frame  covered  with  the 
dew  of  aixiety,  and  trembling  for  itsjlf,  while  the  mind 
maiutaine  1  that  fearful  and  clear-sighted  serenity  Avhich 
goveriied  the  tottering  steps  of  the  martyrs  of  the  early  faith, 
or  that  feeling  which,  to  use  a  more  familiar  though  less  noble 
illustration,  throws  a  degree  of  grace  and  dignity  into  the 
mjvements  of  the  hopeless  wretch  who  journeys  to  his  fate 
at  the  suaimons  of  the  injured  spirit  of  justice — while  he 
remained  buoyed  up,  amid  a  tumult  of  agitating  reflection-;, 
by  this  sudden  firmne-^s  of  resolution,  the  men  with  whom 
lie  was  pr.'parin;'  his  heart  to  endure  a  keen  encounter  of 
moral  or  physical  strength,  as  the  c^se  might  be  (^the  latter 
cviilently  hopeless),  recommenced  their  deliberation  of  the 
n.y-terious  design  of  which  Ku  nba  iiad  already  received  so 
terrifying  a  glimpse. 

"  'Tis  .I'.no^t  time  for  us  to  be  stirten,  I'm  thiaken,"  said 


352  SUIL  DHUV, 

Jcny,  withdrawing  a  heavy  clolh,  and  exposing  a  small 
pane,  throngh  which  the  dark  red,  level  lig'i>t  of  a  sullen 
evening  sun  darted  across  the  room,  forming  a  singular  con- 
trast to  the  whitish,  giiastlj  lustre  of  the  furnace,  as  it  struck 
in  succession  on  the  outlines  of  stern  and  smutted  features, 
and  fragments  of  scattered  tools,  tinging  the  white  and  ed- 
dying volumes  of  vapour  with  deep  crimson,  and  losing  it- 
self in  the  dense  gloom  long  before  it  could  have  struck  the 
further  wall  of  the  apartment. 

Spellacy  glanced  at  Kumba  before  he  replied.  The  look 
■with  which  he  was  encountered  by  the  latter,  as  fixed  and 
resolute  as  his  oivn,  did  not  appear  to  please  him. 

"•  Mr.  Kiuiiba  has  no.  means  o'  goen,"  said  he  doubt- 
ingly. 

"  An  there  four  able  bastes  under  uz,  an  only  #iree  of  uz 
goen  wit  him  ?" 

"  I  forgot  that.  Go  and  saddle  them,  Jerry.  Did  you 
bring  your  arms,  Mr.  Kumba?" 

"  Just  Providence  !   no "  the  young  man  exclaimed, 

suddenly  thrusting  on?  hand  into  his  bosom,  and  clasping 
his  brow  with  the  other,  while  a  pang  of  disappointment 
s!iot  into  his  heirt.  The  real  cause  of  his  regret  was  for- 
tunately not  understood  by  the  hearers. 

"  Pho  !  don't  mind  that.  I'll  Imid  you  a  pair  of  the  best 
feather-springs  that  ever  said  '  pop  !'  for  touch  'em.  Put 
these  in  your  houlsther."  Kumba  eagerly  reached  at  the 
weapons,  but  almost  gasped  his  renewed  disappointment, 
when  the  wounded  man  who  had  been  narrowly  watching 
his  eyes,  put  the  pistols  down  with  his  hand  and  waved 
Kumba  back. 

"  Easy !"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  fair  an'  easy  goes  far  in  a 
day.     ^^'e'll  know  your  mauing  first,  a'  yon  please." 

•'  Hold  !"  said  Kumba,  mauuing  himself  by  a  stror-g  cf- 
for: — ''  We  mn^t  all  c'.ea.ly  understaiid  each  ot'ier.  What 
are  year  designs,  and  what  do  you  expect  fro  n  mo  ?  Speak, 
f.r  I  vivst  know   them '"     The   firmness  with   which  he 


THE  COINER.  353 

spolce  the  last  sentenco,  commanded  for  tlie  first  time  an 
involuntary  sentiment  of  respect  among  the  ruflians.  over 
whom  the  spectacle  of  aroused-up  virtue  had  not  ceased 
to  exercise  an  influence  akin  to  that  whiicli,  as  wo  are 
taught,  the  demons  feel  in  the  contemplation  of  diviniiy. 

"  Let  me  exphiiu  all  to  l\Ir.  Kumba,"  said  Spellacy, 
moving  towards  him,  and  about  to  lay  his  hand  on  tlie  arm 
of  the  latter,  wlio  shi-unk  back  as  if  he  thought  the  touch 
would  liave  blistered  him. 

"  No  colloguen  /"*  said  a  voice  from  behind. 

Spellncy  darted  a  rapid  glance  in  the  direction  of  the 
voice,  but  no  lips  moved  there. 

"No  cott'ncn'  in  corners  !"  said  another. 

Again  the  black  eyes  of  the  Coiner  endeavoured  to  pene- 
trate the  darkness,  but  with  no  greater  success.  His  blood 
seethed  in  its  channel?. 

"  Let  uvery  thing  be  abo'  boord !"  muttered  a  tliird 
voice.  Suil  Dhuv,  who  at  once  filt  the  danger  of  any  com- 
promise of  dii;nity,  made  no  further  etf'ort  to  discover  M;e 
di^alFected,  but  assuming  a  perfect  indifiei-ence  of  manner, 
proceeded  towards  Kumba. 

"  Let  it  be  as  he  says,"  said  the  latter,  whose  spirit  fainted 
as  the  anxiety  of  a  hope  stole  upon  it.  "  Couie  Spellacy, 
come  to  your  own  house  and  we'll  speak  of  it  there,  and  de- 
pend upon  it,  if  the  plan  appears  reasonable  to  me,  I'll  not; 

be  backward  in "     He   stopped  the  sentence  and 

compressed  his  lips,  as  In  turning  his  head  aside  he  belield 
Ilea  Rody  slipping  the  door-bolt  into  its  place,  and  regard- 
ing him  with  a  horrible  side-long  leer. 

"  A'  then — hugh  ! — a'  then  wasn't  it  the  little  chicken 
he  was? — '  Coom  to  ye'r  own  house,  Spellacy,'  siz  he — 0 
thin  the  kncwcn'  boy  he  was! — hugh — hugh!  '7/' your 
plans  be  raiz'uubble' — Gondoutha  wisha  ! — 

Secret  wliispering. 


354  SUIL  DHUV. 

'  Tf  if  If  an  nns 
M'or  kittles  an  pang 
Ther'd  be  small  use  for  the  tinkers— 

Slinsthonc  ?//  You  bad  your  liberty  wit  tbe  ifs  before  you 
coom  liere,  niasther,  you'll  liave  to  dale  wit  the  musts  now, 
I'm  tliinkeu  " 

Kumba's  heart  once  more  ?unk  within  him,  but  his  de- 
spair wns  perfectly  aci^omjilislied  when  he  beheld  Spcllacy 
endeavouring  to  repress  a  smile  at  the  incident.  The  liol- 
lowness  of  tbe  ruffian's  friendship  at  once  rushed  upon  MS 
understanding,  and  showed  him  that  he  stood  in  this  pe- 
ril, solitary  and  unfriended,  and  even  unfelt  for. 

"Coom,  coom!"  exclaimed  the  wounded  man — "let 
the  jintleman  know  what's  wanten'.  Siir,  av  you  plase, 
we're  in  want  o'  money,  an'  we're  goen  to  look  fur  it  at 
Drumscanlon.  Bekays  you  know  the  ways  o'  the  place,  in 
regard  o'  being  coorten'  the  young  lady  tlw^re,  of  ou'd — we 
^^  ant  you  to  try  it  wit  us,  and  take  Miss  Lilly  Byrne  (an  a 
lily  she  is — an'  a  diirlen  lily,  all  over,  sitre) — fur  your 
share  o'  the  plunder." 

The  gradually  incre:'sing  pacsion  which  nerved  and  ex- 
panded the  figure  of  Kuniba  as  he  listened  to  this  speech, 
and  at  length  b"iled  within  his  heart,  now  burst  forth  with 
a  degree  of  violence  which  made  even  the  ruffian  start 
and  change  colour.  "  Villain  !"  the  young  man  broke  out 
— but  the  torrent  was  checked  in  the  very  bound.  The 
instinct  of  nature  and  hubit  suggested  his  coiu'se  almost  in- 
voluntarily to  the  m  in.  He  levelled  a  pistol  at  the  head  of 
the  \  outh,  and  looked  coldly  and  wondc  ringly  in  Ids  eye.  The 
latter  reuiainrd  in  the  attitude  of  the  interru|it('dpassion,  gap- 
ing on  his  opponent,  his  limbs  shaking  audibly  beneath  hini,  1  is 
arms  still  extended,  and  his  fists  clenched,  until  a  sudden 
change  came  over  his  person.  The  hot  anger  that  tided  him 
exuded  in  a  cold  and  chilling  sweat — a  sickening  sensation 
ercjit  through  his  breast — a  hard  throbbing  struck  painfully 
through  his  brain — and  mists  floated  befurc  his  eyi'S,  thri  ugu 


THE  COINER.  355 

wliich  the  form  of  t'  e  coiner,  who  still  kopt  the  weapon 
steadily  presented,  seemed  by  degrees  to  acquire  a  Satanic 
grandeur  and  indistinctness  of  outline.  Theyuuth  relaxed 
his  closed  hands,  and  endeavoured,  while  lie  still  stared  like 
one  spell-bound  into  tlie  bore  of  the  pistol,  to  catch  at 
sonic  support. 

''  Let  us  lose  no  time,"  said  the  man,  making  Kumba 
start,  Avith  a  sudden  gasp  of  tear,  at  the  first  sound  of  his 
voice.     "t^Ioom,  sir  !     Are  you  fur  us,  or  aga'nst  us  ?" 

''  Spellacy ! Spellacy  ! " mut i  ered    Kumba, 

in  a  lovv  and  listless  tone.  But  Suil  Dhuv  did  not  answer 
him. 

"  Wance  for  all,  I  say,  will  you  be  wit  nz  ?" 

"  I  am  alone  !  I  am  unarmed  !  I  am  betrayed  !"  Kumba 
again  murmured,  in  a  tonj  so  expressive  of  utter  agony, 
that  it  touched  tlie  heart  of  Jerry. 

"  Murther,  murther  in  Irish  !  0  the  poor  lad  !"  he  ex- 
cLdmed,  "let  him  think  a  little." 

x\g;nu  the  query  was  repeated,  and  again  Kumba  ne- 
glected to  ausw(r.  The  man  vented  an  oatli,  and  cocked 
the  wc.ipon.  "Is  it  game  you're  makea  ?"  he  asked 
fii.rcrly. 

"No n — n...no  !     I  do   not   insult  you I 

no Spellacy,  hurry hurry  ! slay  ! 

One   moiuint  !...Ah  !   Spellacy,   is  it  all  come  to 

this  '•'" 

"  ."-"peKacy  can't  help  you,  sir,  !"  said  Suil  Dhuv,  "  but 
you  can  lie!p  yourself.'' 

"Ciioo.^e  betune  a  '  Yes'  and  a  '  No,'  for  that's  all  the 
arj,uiag  we'll  hear  fr.'ui  you." 

A  long  silence  'ii-ujd,  while  Kumba  made  an  effort  to 
take  the  il'ctioii.  He  cndeavoiu-cd  to  s vt  his  frame,  ai.d 
stand  more  erect — a  short,  panting  terr>r — a  swift  glance 
at  his  past  life — a  sudden  and  giooniy  fear — a  doubtful 
prav,  r — and  an  ins  a  it  and  cheering  ivsolution  to  make 
u  ia.st  con;pei;satiou  by  dying  for  the  right — all  glanced  in 


35 G  suiL  Diiuv, 

rapid  succession  tlirongli  his  miiul.  Wlien  the  question  was 
rep.^att'd  he  set  his  teeth  hard — and  said  through  then), 
hoarsely  but  firmly,  "Never!" 

At  the  same  instant  a  tall,  ungainl}',  straggling  fig:ire 
darted  between  botli,  struck  up  tlie  pi-tol — and  11  d  in  o 
the  darkness  near  the  door.     Kuniba  heard  it  oj.en  and  shut. 

"  Why  ih  'U,   bad  'cess  to  you,  Maney,"  exclaimed  iLc 

coiner — •'  wait  till "     Eefure  the  sentence  was  tinished 

Kumba  seeing  liis  advantage,  sprung  upon  the  speaker, 
levelled  him  upon  the  earth  with  a  despairing  blow,  and 
})lan;ing  one  foot  upon  his  bi  east,  wrenched  the  pi.-tol  from 
the  unconstious  fingers  of  his  victim.  He  was  in  a  pos- 
ture of  vigorous  and  vi;;ilant  resi>tance  before  one  of  Lis 
enemies  had  recovered  from  their  astonishment.  Setting 
oae  shoulder  against  the  press,  and  bending  his  frame  so  as 
to  concenirate  all  its  strength  and  elasticity,  he  remained 
glancing  from  face  to  face,  and  wa:chingthe  motions  of  all 
with  that  exquisite  instinct  oi  vigilance  to  which  extremity 
awakens  the  senses.  A  vigorous  struggle  ensued.  The 
co'ners  began  to  hem  him  closely  round — and  a  few  mis- 
siles— sods  of  turf — pieces  of  loose  iron,  or  timbtr,  wire 
Ihmg  a'  him  fioni  ihe  darkness.  Tiie  more  di.ngvrous  mis- 
siles, however,  fortunately,  were  not  numa-ous — the  peat- 
fcod  he  scarcely  felt,  and  the  few  blows  he  received  from  ihe 
heavier  Aveapons,  \\ere  not  immediately  or  deeply  injurious  ; 
and  as  none  of  the  gang  appeared  indined  to  teiiipt  the  first 
fire  of  his  single  weap>  n,  he  began  almost  to  entertain  hoijcs 
of  being  able  to  cai)itula  e,  when  he  heard  sen  ebody 
scrambling  on  the  press  over  him,  and  saw  Suil  1  Iiua's 
eyes  giis.en  with  approbatien  as  he  looked  in  that  dirvCtion. 
In  an  insiant  he  received  a  bloiv  en  ihe  crown  of  the  head, 
Avhich  made  the  room  appear  all  \\rapt  in  one  led  llau.e, 
and  then  as  instanilv  envelup  d  in  total  gloom.  His  s  ull 
felt,  as  if  it  w>.:re  about  to  ds^olve  upon  his  shoulders.  His 
arms  dropped — his  heart  swung  and  fluttered  in  his  bosoin, 
and  all  was — darkness. 


THE  COINER. 


357 


"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !"  chuckled  the  white-haired  rnffinn,  as  he 
endeavoured  to  descend  from  his  hold — "  I  thouglit  I  hadn't 
lost  the  knack  of  it,  yit.  Quiet  an  aizy,  he  is  now,  isn't  he, 
why !  He'll  tell  nobody  now,  only  tuo  sorts  of  peojjle — 
thiiii  that  axes  him,  and  thim  that  doesn't.  Gi'  me  a  hand, 
Jerry  —  0  this  cough  of  mine  ! — luigh  !— hugh  !  A  cough 
— a  coffin  they  say.  Wipe  the  blood  from  his  forehid,  do 
ye,  boys — and  go  about  ye'r  bizuiz,  file  I  stay  au'  watch  my 
lad!" 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I  am  not  now  the  blooming  maid 
That  used  to  love  the  valley's  shade; 
Mj'  youth  and  hopes  are  quite  decayed, 
And  all  my  joys  are  gone ! 

Irish  Ballad. 

That  which  hath  made  them  drunk,  hath  made  me  bold — 
A\  hat  hath  quenthtd  them,  liatli  given  me  lire. 

Shakspeare. 

Rejoiced,  at  length,  to  breathe  a  purer  atmosphere  than 
that  Avhich  has  been  suffocating  us  through  the  last  chapter, 
we  request  the  reader  to  return,  for  the  last  time,  with  us 
to  the  sleeper  and  his  blue-eyed  sentinel,  in  the  parlour  of 
the  inn.  The  interest  which  she  had  evinced  for  the  old 
man,  and  which  had  excited  so  much  astonishment  in  his 
mind,  did  not  appear  to  subside  after  she  had  accomplished 
the  object  which  she  desired,  and  beheld  him  once  more 
locked  in  the  unconsciousness  of  a  profound  repose.  She 
remained  pacing  softly  and  anxiously  through  the  room, 
sometimes  pressing  her  brow  with  her  expanded  palm,  at 
others  clasping  and  wringing  her  hands  hard,  but  with  a 
perfectly  noiseless  action — now  starting  and  biting  her  thin 
lip,  as  the  voice  of  i\laney  and  the  preacher  iu  the  kitchen 


358  suiL  Diiuv, 

made  her  tlread  the  waiving  of  her  guest — now  gazing  fondly 
toward  the  old  man's  bed,  wliile  her  large  soft  eyes  became 
watery,  and  her  wasted  and  yellow  countenance  changed 
and  saddened  under  the  influence  of  some  mela-^choly  asso- 
ciations, until  she  stretched  her  arms  forth  to  their  furlh  st 
limit,  and  her  bosom  heaved  and  panted  with  a  longing  ten- 
derness— and  then  by  a  sudden  transition,  shuddering  with 
horror,  gathering  her  hands  fearfully  to  iier  bosom,  and  en- 
deavouring by  an  impatient  gesture  to  shake  off  the  startling 
recollection,  whatever  it  was,  that  had  checked  the  flowing 
kindness.  At  another  time  as  she  crept  across  the  room,  the 
valiseof  the  Palatine  caught  her  eye,  and  made  her  start  and 
tremble  so  violently,  that  it  seemed  to  require  a  powerful 
effort  of  self-command  to  prevent  her  renewing  the  wild  cry 
of  agony  with  which  she  had  before  startled  the  household. 
She  then,  with  a  light,  tiptoe  movement,  crept  to  the  bed- 
side, seemed  about  to  lift  the  dimity  curtain,  paused,  clasped 
her  hands,  looked  upwai'd,  aud  finally  withdrew  it,  and  gazed, 
upon  the  sleeper. 

"  His  /"  she  exclaimed,  muttering,  In  a  soft  whi.-per  a 
link  frjni  the  chain  of  her  silent  conference  with  her   own 

heart — "•his  ! 0  if  I  could  only  by  tears,  and  kneorng 

and  moistening  the  very  dust  about  his  feet,  obtain  his  that 
I  wronged  more  cruelly  than  by  saying  a  word  of  truth  in 
his  ear  !  0  how  softly,  and  kindly,  and  warmly  his  word 
of  anger  and  command  fell  upon  my  heart !  I  thought  I 
was  a  child  again,  and  that  my  own  father  stood  before  me. 
Where  is  my  father  now !  Ay,  have  you  a  father,  you 
miserable  dupe? — You  rohber's  wife!  you  worse  rubber 
thin  the  worst,  you  plunde'i'r  of  the  old  man's  [eace!  you 

thief  of  his  rest  and  happiness ! — and  for  what  ? — For " 

here  an  uneasy  motion  of  the  sleeper  alarmrd  her.  She  1  t 
the  curtaiu  fall,  and  taking  hers ,'  it  i-n  a  low  chair  near  the 
I'td,  she  commenced,  in  that  low  and  inurniniing  me'o  ly 
of  tone  which  Irish  niirscs  use  to  lull  the  ea  of  i  fancv,  and 
which  scarcely  exceeds  in  the  extent  of  its  cunipi.ss  or  t'.ia 


THE  COINEE.  359 

variety  of  its  intonation  the  drowsy  rise  and  fJl  of  the  hum 
of  snnimer  bees,  a  simple  and  phiiulive  air,  the  words  of 
•which,  Hide  as  they  were,  we  will  venture  to  transcribe. 


The  mie-na-mallah*  now  is  past, 

O  ■wirra-sthru  !   O  wirra-stliru  ! 
And   I   must  leave  my  home  at  last, 

O  uirra-sthru  !   O  wirrastliru! 
1  look  into  my  lather  s  eyes — 
I  hear  my  mother's  i>artin<;  sighs — 
Ah;  fool  to  pine  for  other  ties — 

O    wirra-tthru!   O  wirra-sthru  1 


This  evening  the^-  must  sit  alone, 
0  win-a  sthru!  O  wirra-sthru! 

They'll  talk  of  me  when   I  am  gone, 
0  wirra-sthru !  O  wirra-sthru  ! 

Who  now  will  cheer  my  weary  sire, 

When  toil  and  care  his  heart  shall  tire? 

My  chair  is  empty  by  the  fire! 

O  wirra-sthru  !   0  wirra-sthru ! 


How  sunny  looks  my  pleasant  home! 

O  wirra  stliru!   0  wirra-sthru! 
Those  flowers  for  me  shall  never  bloom- 

O  wirra-.'-thru  !   O  wirra-sthru  ! 
I  seek  new  friends,  and  1  am  told, 
That  they  are  rich  in  lands  and  gold ; 
Ah!  will  they  love  me  hke  the  old? 

0  wirra-sthru  !  0  wirra-sthru  ! 

IV. 

Farewell !  dear  friends,  we  meet  no  more-" 

0  wirra^thiu  !  0  wirra-sthru  1 
My  husband  s  horse  is  at  the  door ! 
O  wirra-sthru  !  0  wirra-sthru  ! 
Ah,  love!  ah,  love,  be  kind  to  me 5 
For  b_\-  I '  ■»  breaking  heart  you  see 
How  diarly  I  have  pun  hated  thee  I 
O   wirra-sthru!  0  wirra-sthru! 

Honeymoon. 


360  SLIL   DHCV, 

As  tne  sinr^er  paused  on  the  last,cadence  of  the  air,  tlie 
pathos  and  simplicity  of  which  she  rendered  infinitely  touch- 
ing by  the  delicate  mana:^eTnent  of  a  voice  of  great  softness 
and  tenderness  of  tone,  a  short-breathed  sigh  proceeding 
from  some  person  near  her,  mingled  with  and  checked  it  in 
the  close.  Raising  her  eves,  she  beheld  Suil  Dhuv  bending 
over  her,  his  arms  folded,  and  an  expression  on  his  features 
which  might  be  indicative  of  mingled  kindness  and  delibe- 
ration. Her  thoughts  ir.stantly  recurred  to  her  guest,  and 
with  a  movement  of  swift  alarm  she  aose  from  her  seat,  and 
endeavoured  to  lead  him  from  the  place. 

"  Stay,  Sally  1"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  want  to  know  about 

the "  but  the  woman  stopped  his  speech,  putting  her- 

tinger  on  her  lip,  and  pointing  to  the  bed.     The  Coiner 
followed  her. 

"  Wha-t  are  they? — where  are  they  going? — and  by 
what  road  ?"  were  the  iii-st  questions  which  he  asked,  when 
they  had  passed  through  the  kitchen,  where  Shine  was  now 
slumbering  by  the  fire,  and  gained  the  apartment  in  the 
further  end  of  the  hou^^e. 

"My  love! — mv  own  love  I"  said  the  woman,  laving 
her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  pressing  it  aftVctionately — we 
have  been  now  four  years  married,  living  together,  true  to 
one  another,  in  sickiiess,  in  want,  in  jov — (;ind  we^fl^  our 
share  of  that  too,  Mark) — and  in  guilt — (and  ui' that  too, 
Mark,  hadn't  we  ?)— and " 

'•  (Jome  !  come!"  said  Spellacy,  impatiently — ''what 
preachment  are  we  to  iiave  now  ?" 

"  I  was  only  saving,  Mark,  that  we  had  been  now  so  long 
married,  and  i  never — never  oi>ce  made  you  a  request  since 
the  first  day  we  wedded.'' 

"And  whose  fault  do  you  want  to  s;iv  that  was?"    • 

"  My  own,  darling  !"  she  said,  laying  her  hands  caress- 
ingly on  his  shoulders — "sure  1  know  'twas  my  own  !  but 
it  won't  be  my  fault  any  longer,  for  I  have  something  to 
ask  vou  for  now  at  last." 


THE  COINER.  oCl 

"  AVell,  -wliat's  that  to  Le  ?"  the  husband  muttered  dla- 
ti'u St  fully. 

"  P'irst  tell  me,  darling,  what  you  intend." 

"  Poh  !  the  old  plan  always.  To  make  sure  o'  the 
horses  and  the  aims  you  know,  and  then  the  four  of  us  to 
ride  off  to  Drunitcaulon,  and  do  our  business  there — and 
be  back  so  as  to  take  these  here  upon  their  way.  'Twill 
be  a  biisk  night's  work,"  he  added  looking  into  the  air. 

"  You  will  not  use  violence  ?"  she  said  t'alteringly,  while 
she  watched  his  eyes. 

"  Poh — no — no — no — to  be  sure,"  the  fellow  replied 
carelessly. 

The  negative  wp.s  not  sntisfactory. 

"  Mark,"  said  the  woman,  twining  her  aims  close  about 
bis  neck,  and  looking  with  an  agony  of  entreaty  in  liis 
face,  "  my  request — my  first  and  only  one — is  this — that 
you  Avill  spend  this  evening  with  me,  and  let  those  men  de- 
part in  peace" 

Suil  Dhuv  stared  upon  her. 

*'  I  charge  you,"  she  continued,  raising  her  voice  and 
assuming  a  more  solemn  tone,  "  harm  them  not !  Lay  not 
your  iinger  on  a  hair  of  that  o'd  nnin's  head,  as  you  value 
your  life  !  Do  not  brush  the  dust  from  his  psth  !  If  you 
give  him  one  evil  eye — one  b.id  wi-h — one  ruffian  thought 
— it  were  better  for  you,  your  nurse  had  strangled  you  upon 
her  lap !  Let  the  morning  dawn  see  you  as  innocent  of 
liarm,  thought  or  done,  towards  him,  as  the  child  that  is  un- 
born !" 

''  Why Sally !" 

"Keep  off  your  hand  !  You  know  me  not ! — I  tell  you, 
man,  you  know  but  little  of  me  yet.  Observe  my  Avords, 
or  fear  'em  ! — Fear  for  your  soul !  or  if  that  will  not  startle 
you,  fear  for  your  neck  ! — for  as  sure  as  that  man's  way  is 
troubled — ay,  if  only  by  a  pebble  cast  in  it  by  your  hand^ 
you  shall  die  the  death  of  a  dog !" 

She  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  as  if  conscious  of  her 
16 


3G2  smL  Dnuv, 

lEubiiity  to  sustain  the  commanding  and  enercetlc  tone  she 
iiad  assumed  in  her  fit  of  enthusi;ism,  when  Suil  Dliuv,  at 
lenp;th  recovered  from  liis  astonishment,  though  not  at  all 
touched  either  by  tenderness  or  her  menaces,  seized  her 
firmly  by  the  arm — shut  the  door  fast, — and  looking  fix- 
edly into  her  eyes,  asked  : — 

"  Who  is  this  man  f 

"  No  matter  !"  said  the  woman,  avoiding  his  gaz  e  and 
clearing  the  per:?piration  from  her  brow,  "  that  is  ray  re- 
quest, grant  or  refuse  it  as  you  will." 

The  Coiner  slowly  relaxed  his  hold,  while  he  remained 
gazing  with  an  exertion  ff  intense  scrutiny  on  her  changing 
and  agitated  features.  She  seemed  to  understand  the  ac- 
tion, though  she  dared  not  luok  at  him,  and  tliis  conscious- 
ness served  only  to  increase  her  anxiety.  A  creeling,  cold, 
malignant  smile  at  length  parted  his  hard  lips,  and  glis- 
tened with  a  triumphant  light  in  his  eye.  He  let  her  hand 
fall,  and  walked  in  silence  toward  the  door. 

It  was  now  ^er  turn  to  interpose.  "  Hold!  stay  !"  she 
exclaimed,  "  is  my  request  granted  ?  0  tell  me  what  you 
intend  !" 

"  You  can  be  secret,  Sally — so  can  I." 

"  He  is  a  friend  of  mine,  Mark,  i?n't  that  enough  ?" 

"  Enough  of  what  ?  Don't  you  know,  there  are  some 
friends  of  yours  that  are  worse  than  enemies  to  me." 

The  poor  woman  did  know  it  very  well,  and  so  she  told 
him  by  a  mournful  shake  of  the  head 

"  Well !  well  !"  she  said  sullenly,  "  I  will  tell  you  some- 
thing presently.     But  leave  me  to  think  awhile." 

"  I  am.  going  to  say  a  word  to  Awney  Fairel — remain 
here  until  I  come.  So  you  can  talk,  can  you?"  he  added 
in  soliloquy,  as  he  left  the  house.  "  Wt'll  see  if  Lilly  Byrne 
won't  fill  your  place  a  little  more  sofily.  Not  a  better 
sport  I'd  wish,  than  to  see  you  take  up  with  the  mudhaun 
that's  lying,  brained,  abroad  in  the  loft.  And  sure  ye  can 
do  it,  the  two  o'  ye,  and  welcome,  can't  ye  ?" 


I  I 


THE  COINER,  363 

"  Tliere.is  one  other  clifince,"  the  woman  saitl,  after  me- 
ditating alone  for  a  moment  on  tlie  courso  which  she  oiig;h{ 
now  to  pursue.  "  One  chance  to  save  all !  What  i'f  it 
fail !      Hate  is  as  black  and  deadly  in  the  old  as  in   the 

young,  and  sometimes  more  so.    He  may  refuse What 

then  ?  Avow  all  ?  Rain  !  death,  and  horror  ! — Stay  ! 
let  me  think — let  me  pause  a  moment — 0  for  some  frieiil ! 

some  kind  adviser — some Heaven  !"  she  clasped  her 

hands  and  uplifted  them,  but  again  repre-sed  the  feeling. 
"  No — no — it  is  my  human  agony  that  speaks,  and  Heaven 
that  calls  for  pentience,  will  not  heir  me  for  my  own  sel- 
fish interests.  My  hmds  are  bloody  too — had  I  forgotten 
that?"  and  compressing  her  lips  wiih  a  shjcking  stare  of 
desolation,  she  walked  to  the  door  of  the  room,  and  be  ;k-- 
oned  the  old  Palatine,  whose  voice  she  heard  in  the  next 
apartment,  to  enter. 

"  Do  not  hurt  the  poor  child,"  he  said,  as  the  woman 
fiercely  repelled  the  little  boy,  who  attempted  to  force  his 
way  in  with  the  old  man.  "  1  don't  know  why  it  is,"  he 
added,  patting  the  little  fellow  on  the  head,  and  looking 
pensively  in  its  open  face,  "  but  I  like  the  boy.  Here  my 
man,  is  a  tester  for  you  ! — That's  a  hero  !  I've  seen  an  eye 
like  that  child's  somewhere,  certainly." 

The  woman  fell  on  her  knees,  and  clasped  the  child  to 
her  bosom,  with  a  burst  of  hysterical  passion,  kissing  his 
neck,  and  suffering  her  hair  to  fall  in  long,  abandoned 
tresses  over  its  back  and  shoulders. 

"  Strange  creature!"  tliouglit  the  Palatine,  "what  a  mix- 
ture of  affection  and  unkindness  !  what  a  changeful  sud- 
denness of  motive  and  feeling  appear  to  be  in  all  her  ac- 
tions !" 

While  he  again  caressed  the  boy,  the  woman  rushed 
into  the  other  room,  dashed  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and 
glancing  quickly  reund,  snatched,  from  the  extended  hand 
of  Shine,  a  vessel  of  raw  spirits,  from  which  he  was  just 
ibout  to  replenish  his  tumbler  of  punchy  and  placing  it  t( 


864  SUIL  DHUV, 

her  lips,  (Iraincd  it  to  the  very  last ;  then  tossing  the  ves- 
sel oil  the  table,  slic  re-entered  the  apartment,  fortified  with 
that  dreadfid  enei-;:j,  with  which  rlie  royal  murderess  ot 
Scotlanil,  on  another  occasion,  sought  to  invigorate  the  na- 
tural feebleness  of  licr  sex — and  utterly  regardless  of  the 
impression  vliich  she  left  on  the  mind  of  the  guping 
and  astoundid  SLine,  both  with  re.-pcct  to  her  morality  and 
her  good  breeding. 

"  Your  name  is  Segur?"  she  said,  after  pausing  a  mo- 
ment to  collect  herself.  "  Don't  start — "  she  added,  "  it 
was  that  informed  me,"  pointing  to  the  valise  which  he  held 
in  his  hand. 

"  That  is  my  name,  certainly,"  said  the  old  man  in  some 
surprise. 

"  You  are  travelling  to  your  native  village— your  cottage, 
uear  Court  Mattress  ?" 

"  I  am." 

*'  By  the  Crag  road  ?" 

*' Yes." 

*'  Return  the  way  you  came,  or  take  any  road  but  that, 
there's  daai^er  in  it." 

The  Palatine  gave  her  a  sharp,  and  very  suspicious 
glance. 

"  I  am  well  armed,"  said  he. 

The  woman  smiled,  "  if  no  road  but  that  will  serve 
your  purpose,  remain  here  to-night.  The  heaven  itself  is 
bent  against  you," — and  she  pointed  through  the  window 
to  a  small  black  cloud  that  hung  above  the  tUlated  disk  of 
the  parting  sun. 

*'  I  am  well  provided  in  that  respect  also,"  said  the  old 
man  ;    "but  wiiat  dangers  do  you  speak  of?" 

"  The  road  is  infested.  Every  body  fears  it  lu  those 
times." 

"  0,"  said  the  Palatine,  "  if  your  counsel  is  only  grounded 
on  such  a  general  suspicion,  we  won't  say  any  more  about 
it."     And  he  turned  away. 


THE  COINER.  365 

"  Stfiy !"  snid  tlie  woman,  detaining  Lim,  anrl  casting 

her  eyes  on  the  e;ivth.     "  You  had "  a  long  pause 

'*■  there  was — " 


"  You  are  ill,  my  good  woman." 

"  Sir  !" 

"  Sliall  I  give  you  a  chair  ?  Sit  down.  Wliat  would 
you  say  to  me  ?" 

"  This  ague  plagues  me  so.  One  moment,  sir.  You 
had  a  friend,  in  care  of  your  farm,  an  old  blind  man — 
Adam  Segur  ?     You  are  a"-are  of  his  fate  ?" 

"  I  am.     He  was  murdered  y"  s  lid  the  old  man  eagerly. 

The  woman  shivered  in  all  her  limbs.  "  He  was — 
and—" 

'•  ^Fy  diinghter  !  I  see  you  know  my  family  ?  What  of 
her  my  good  woman  ?" 

'•  0  your  daughter — your  daughter  is  well — merry  and 
Avell — I'll  engage — very  well  and  haj>py  indeed,  thanks  be 
to  Heaven." 

"Thanks  !  humble,  heartfelt  thanks  be  to  Heaven  in- 
deed !"  the  old  man  repeated  with  a  devout  emphasis,  un- 
covering his  head,  and  turning  his  moistened  eyes  upward. 
He  wa-;  aijiin  painfully  interrupted  by  a  renewed  passion 
of  convulsive  laughter  from  the  woman. 

"  The  night  and  the  coming  storm  bring  on  my  ague  fit. 
You  must  not  mind  it.  I  suppose  you  are  astonished  at 
my  acquaintance  with  your  affairs,  but  I  was  an  old  neigh- 
bour, and  a  dearfriend  of  your  daughter's  ;  but  marriage  se- 
vers fonder  ties  than  ours.     We  are  but  poor  friends  now." 

The  old  man  hesitated  one  moment  before  he  asked 
doubtiugly. — "  Were  you  at  all  in  her  confidence,  then?'' 

"  0 — a  little.  She  was  taken  with  a  young  man — so 
she  wa^ — at  the  same  time." 

"  A  villain  !  a  low  ruffian  I"  said  the  Palatine,  clenching 
his  fist,  and  using  a  passionate  gesture. 

"  Never  truer  word  you  said  in  your  life — so  much  I  c-lti 
tell  you  —  aiuim'iro  t!uin  that  may  be." 


SG6  SUIL  DHUT, 

"  My  Sarah,"  the  old  man  continued,  in  tremulous 
hesitation  —  "  was  always  a  good  and  dutiful  cldld, 
and—" 

"  Don't  be  so  sure  o'  that.  Heaven  bless  your  simple 
soul  and  body,  I  knew  her  better  than  you  did  a  great  deal 
— A  great  deal," 

"  She  know  my  wishes  with  respect  to  that  young  vil- 
lain, and  I'm  sure  she  obeyed  them." 

"  Are  you,  indeed?  and  why  shoidd  you  now?  Had 
she  no  will  of  lier  own,  do  you  think  ?"  the  woman  said, 
with  a  rapid  and  angry  petulance  of  tone,  like  that  which 
soaieiinies  precedes  an  access  of  delirium  in  sickness — 
'•  Was  she  only  to  be  a  little  bit  of  a  puppet  iu  your  hands, 
to  pull  her  this  way  and  that,  and  lock  lier  up,  or  let  her 
dance,  just  as  you  liked?  Eh! — Sarah,  do  this — Sarah, 
do  that.  And  Sarah  was  to  do  it  all ! — Ha  !  She  was  no 
Buch  fiiol,  she  tiianks  yuu — " 

"  You  do  not  mean — " 

"  Or  if  she  did — was  she  to  be  the  only  saint  upon  earth  ? 
Others  disjb.yed  their  parents — and  was  she  to  be  the  only 
jood  little  slave  in  the  world  — OIi,  oh  !  Because  she  was 
your  daughter,  I  suppose,  she  was  to  be  as  white  as  the 
snow  !  Pride,  my  dear  sir — piide  made  the  angrls  fall. 
Think  more  humbly  of  your  nwn.  I  had  a  f'atlier  as  well 
as  she — aye,  a  goud,  kind  father — and  1  disobeyed  him. 
1  left  him  in  his  ai;e — and  destro3'ed  his  quiet — and  1  knew 
I  w.is  doing  it  when  I  did  it,  and  1  did  it  for  all  that.  IJnt 
don't  be  fiightened,"  she  added  hastily,  observing  the  p  de- 
ue-s  of  a  sudtlen  alarm  whitening  on  the  brow  of  the  old 
nmn — ''  She  was  less  guilty  than  I.  She  was  not  such  an 
abandoned,  unhappy  wretch  as  I  am.  Few  are,  indeed," 
she  added,  mournfidly,  tapping  with  her  feet  on  the  floor, 
l:ke  one  in  pain. 

"  I  have  been  so  long  absent,"  said  the  Palatine — "  that 
I  have  !■  rgotien  many  things  which  perliaps  some  pers 'Us 
will  say  1  ought  to  remeaibji'.     You  say  you  are  an  old 


THE  COINER.  367 

neiglibour,  yet  I  cannot  by  any  exertion  recall  yonr  person 
or  yonr  name  to  my  recollection." 

"  Can  you  remember  a  family  of  the  name  of  Spailin?, 
who  lived  within  a  few  perches  of  the  high  road  near  \our 
village  ?" 

'•  Phil  Sparling  ?  I  do,  very  well.  His  wife  died  in 
giving  birth  to  an  only  danghter — " 

"  That's  it,  just !"  said  the  woman,  la}  ing  her  hand 
quickly  on  his  arm — "  I'm  that  daughter — that's  just  ic, 
now.     I  am,  indeed.     I'm  that  girl." 

"  And  your  father " 

"  Listen — r;nd  I'll  tell  you  every  thing.  When  Mark 
— no — no — whin  your  daughter's  sweetheart,  Dinny,  I 
think  she  called  him,  used  to  be  coming  about  the  cottage, 
Jlaik  Spellacy  here,  my  hi^sband,  used  to  be  along  with 
him,  and  wliile  Saruh  took  his  arm,  and  walked  w'uh  him 
in  the  monniight,  i  walked  with  Mark — leaving  my  old  fa- 
ther thnt  loved  me,  lonely  in  his  house.  Mark  was  poor 
and  Wiiuted  money— i?.nd  when  we  had  agreed  to  go  ot^'  to- 
gether, unkuown  to  th'j  old  man,  I  robbed  him  and  gave  it 
to  Mark— so  I  did.  I  did,  indeed.  And  I  left  my  old  f  i- 
ther  without  so  much  as  one^ust  one  word  for  all  hi,-,  love, 
in  the  dead  of  night — and  no  one  to  care  for  him — with- 
out so  much  as  a  '  this'  or  '  that' — or  '  by  your  leave,  fa- 
ther'— or  '  God  be  with  you  for  your  kindness.'  Not  a 
word  indeed — no  more  than  if  he  was  a  stone — or  7.  And 
I  rubbing  him  too,  think  o'  that !  Did  you  ever  hear  u' 
aichalady?  L'id  you  now  ?  Omyluait!  My  biain  ! 
Oh  God,  vengeful,  terrible  God  !  Oh,  hell !  hdl !  'tis  with 
me,  sir—]  have  it—"  And  sufiering  her  voice  to  fall  su.U 
dcnly  from  its  shrilly  and  painful  height  to  a  low  and 
h(  arsely  muttered  sound  of  horror,  as  siie  rep  at.  d  ihe  last 
excLiuiation,  she  paused  a  moment,  gazing  with  hot,  drv, 
jind  distended  eyeballs  on  the  earth.  The  Palatine  je> 
gar  'ed  her  with  great,  anxiety  and  commiseration. 

*'  Poor  creatine  I"  he  said,  with  tenderness,  "  so  much 


368  SUIL  DHUV, 

feeling  cannot  be  without  some  beneficial  influence.     Why 
don't  you  return  to  your  father  ?" 

"  J/e  /  me  go  near  him  !  Ah  !  no  I  am  not  quite  so 
bad  as  that,  yet.  'Tis  terrilole  enough  to  think  of  him, 
and  think  of  him  I  do,  enough.  Many  a  long  year  it  is 
now  since  I  left  him,  and  yet  his  voice  sounds  as  plainly  in 
my  ears  as  if  he  were  constantly  about  me.  When  I  wake 
in  the  morning  I  hear  him  call  my  name,  and  Avhen  we  sit 
down  to  our  n;eals,  I  see  his  old  hand  closed,  and  hear  his 
holy,  contented  jnayer,  and  think  of  all  his  fondness  and 
his  iove,  saying  a  thing  from  his  heart,  and  seeming  to 
make  a  joke  of  it.  No  bragging  love,  like  a  young  man's. 
And  sometimes  too,  in  the  dead  of  the  winter  night,  whin 
I  lie  alone  in  my  bed,  and  the  rain  beats  on  the  thatch,  and 
the  wind  blows,  and  my  first,  frightful  dreams  come  on,  I 
see  him  then  with  his  white,  bony  cheek,  and  his  red  and 
angiy  eyes,  and  his  long  gray  hairs  hanging  down  about 
his  face,  standing  on  ihe  floor,  and  looking  doAvn  towards 
me,  upbraiding  me  with  every thingy* '  Sallv,  look  at  your 
father,  how  you  have  served  him.  You  have  left  his  arms 
fur  a  common  robber's.  Ah,  Sally,  when  I  held  you  in  my 
arms,  a  little  child,  when  I  kissed  your  cheek,  and  taught 
you  to  know  the  right  from  the  wrong,  I  little  thought  you 
would  make  me  sucii  a  return  as  this  one  day  !'  And  some- 
times I  £(  e  him  in  rags  and  poverty,  and  he  bends  over  me 
with  his  cold  blue  lips,  and  presses  his  hands  donn  upon 
my  throat  till  I  gasp  for  breath,  and  screech  out  o'  my 
sli  ep,  and  wake  in  the  midst  o'  the  darkness,  the  black, 
thick  darkness,  all  about,  about  me,  and  I  wave  my  hands 
through  it,  and  that  horrible  pale  face  is  there  before  me 
still."  And  with  a  chilly  shudilering,  she  placed  both  hands 
en  her  face,  and  simk  back  in  her  chair. 

''  Yet  I  would  advi.-e  you  to  lose  no  time  in  returning  to 
your  father.  You  will  at  all  events  have  done  your  duty 
by  making  the  effort  at  reconciliation,  and  don't  think  so 
hardly  of  him  as  to  siii)pose  he  will  reject  you,  Avoman.     If 


. I 


THE  COINER.  369 

f  judge  by  myself,  he — no — "  the  old  man  paused,  and  shook 
his  head. 

"  Well  ?  well  ?  Eh  ?  M'hat  Avere  you  goii  g  to  say  ?'*  asked 
the  woman- eagerly,  "  if  you  judged  by  yourself — what:" 

"  Nothing.     I'm  afraid  I  misc;dcu!ated." 

The  poor  woman  gave  a  deep  sigh,  and  cast  a  disap- 
pointed look  around  her. 

*'  But  I  have  no  cause  to  judge  of  others  by  myself.  I 
have  discovered  many  sym[)toins  of  hardness  and  inveteracy 
about  my  own  character,  which  I  am  sure  b  Jung  not  to 
all  men." 

"  No  matter.  Tell  me  how  you  would  act  yourself — for 
that  only  cuuld  give  me  satisfiiction." 

The  PaLitiue  stared  hard  upon  her. 

"  Ay^speak!"  she  continued,  "place  yourself  in  poor 
Sparling's  situation.  Suppose  your  daugliter  had  served 
you,  as  I  served  my  father  — -and  suppose  she  was  as  sorry 
for  it  as  the  Almighty,  that  sees  my  heart,  iuiows  /  am 
— and  suppose  she  was  to  come  to  your  door  again,  and 
stretch  her  h;nids  out  to  you,  and  cry  to  you  fur  furgivenoss. 
Would  you  slap  the  door  with  a  curse  in  her  face — ur  wuuld 
you  tliink  of  the  dead  mother  that  bore  her  and  that  loved 
vuu  dearly — -and  of  the  God  that  foi'gave,  and  cumin  mded 
all  to  forgive— and  take  the  poor,  weeping,  heart-bruken 
creature  to  your  heirt  again?  Would  you  forgive  her .? 
^^'ould  you  ble^s  her?  Oh,  you  wouli,  sir — your  heart 
woull  soften — your  eyes  would  fill — you  would  tliink  of  old 
times — you  would  feel  for  her — -you  would  we.'p  with  hcir 
— ^)-ou  would  pirdou  her  !"  And  flinging  hers.df  in  a  con- 
vulsion of  tears  and  agitation  at  the  old  man's  feet,  she  re- 
mained with  her  hair  mi  igled  with  the  very  dust  around 
them. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  give  the  reader  a  just  idea  of  the 
change  which  this  sp3ech  occasioned  in  the  person  and  fea- 
tures of  the  old  Palatine.     Far  from  appearing  affected  by 
the  grie.'"  of  the  wretched  woman,  an  expression,  nrst,  ol 
16* 


870  SUIL  DHUV. 

strong  surprise — then  of  -sickening  terror — and  lastly,  of 
great  dislike  passed  over  them.  He  paused  for  a  moment, 
like  one  who  is  struggling  against  the  conviction  of  a 
dreadful  truth — set  his  teeth — and  fetched  a  hard  breath 
before  he  raised  her  fro:n  tlie  earth — then  putting  back  her 
hair  from  her  face  with  one  hand,  while  he  grasped  her  arm 
with  the  other,  he  looked  long  and  nmazedly  into  her  eyes, 
both  remaining  fixed  in  the  attitude,  and  affording  for  se- 
veral minutes  no  further  indication  of  life  than  could  be  dis- 
covered in  an  exqu'sitely  fat^hioneil  group  from  the  pale  marble. 
At  length,  after  sutfering  his  eyes  to  wander  over  the  whole 
person  of  the  female,  he  drew  a  free  breath,  as  if  relieved 
fiom  a  dreadful  npprehension  and  letting  her  arm  go,  he  said: 

"  I  have  looked  over  all  your  person,  and  am  satisfied 
that  you  are  not  my  daughter — but  I'm  afi-aid  I'll  find  it 
hard  to  forgive  yon  the  shock  you  caused  me.  Go  along, 
you  wicked  woman,  it  was  a  shame  for  you  !" 

The  poor  woman  could  but  sigh  and  weep,  and  cling 
entreating'.y  about  him.  Her  perseverance  appeared  to  in- 
crease his  anger  even  to  rage. 

"  Go  along  !"  he  repeated,  shaking  her  off  rudely — 
"  Heaven  forgive  me  !  1  never  felt  that  it  could  be  in  my 
nature  to  use  a  worn  in  ill  since  I  was  the  height  o'  that — 
b'lt — go  along!  I  cou'd  abnoit  strike  you  for  the  horrible 
fright  you  gave  me  !  Puh  !  poh  !  I  wont  do  it  for  all  that," 
he  added  softiy,  as  the  woman  flung  her  arms  wide  as 
as  if  to  court  the  outrage — "  but  you're  a  shocking  creature !" 
And  he  hurried  out  of  the  room,  disengaging  himself  un- 
gently  enough,  from  the  imploring  grasp  of  the  miserabk 
wretch,  who  to'tered,  muttering  deliriously,  and  casting 
around  her  glances  of  utter  desolation  of  spirit,  towards 
the  cliair. 

"Come  along,  Mr  Shine  !"  said  the  old  man  impatiently, 
"  I  could  not  look  in  that  woman's  face  again  if  it  were  to 
tiave  my  life  I"    A  id  he  hurried  in  his  pre})aration  to  depart. 

lu  a  (aw  minutes,  the  trampliug  of  horses'  feet    outsidu 


THE  COINER.  871 

tlie  door  announced  to  her  tho  approaclimg  departure  of  her 
guests.  Looking  through  the  window  she  beheld  Maney 
O'Neil  standing  in  his  usunl  foolish  attitude  tapping  his 
thighs  with  his  long  bony  fingers,  and  gazing  loosely  about 
him.  As  soon  as  he  caught  her  eyes,  he  winiced,  nodded, 
and  elevated  a  coarse  smith's  file,  at  the  same  tiuie  tapping 
his  fo  it  knowingly  with  his  finger.  She  beckoned  him 
quietly  toward  her. 

"  I  done  it,  I'll  be  bail,  mistress,"  he  said  in  a  whisper. 
"  If  they  go  past  the  Crags,  any  way,  call  me  an  honest 
man,  1  give  yiu  free  leave." 

"  Where's  Suil  Dhuv  ?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"  Aih  ?  Suil  Dhuv  ?  0,  he's  gone — himself  and  the  rest 
o'  the  lads." 

"  Gone  !"  she  almost  shrieked  the  word — "  Impossible!'' 

"Aih?" 

'*  lie's  not  gone,  he  cannot  be." 

*'  0 — iss,  dear,  he  is,  ma'am." 

"  He  lias  deceived  me  !"  she  said,  retiring  in  great  dis- 
tress of  soul  from  the  window,  "  his  bio  )d  be  on  his  head  ! 
Mr.  Segur !"  The  Palatine  did  not  answer,  but  seemed 
to  quicken  his  departure  still  more. 

"■  Yo:i  n  ed  not  fi-ar,  sli-,"  she  siid,  bitterly  smiling  as 
she  opened  the  door  and  looked  on  him.  "  You  have  no 
more  bad  news  to  hear  from  me.  You  said  you  were  armed, 
sir!"  she  added,  as  he  sullenly  entered  the  apartment. 

"  I  am,  thank  Heaven,"  he  said  carelessly,  stiU  avoid- 
ing her  eyes. 

"  Look  to  your  pis'ols,  sii- !"  she  said.  The  old  man 
now  stared  openly  again  upon  her. 

On  flinging  back  the  pins  he  started  in  real  alarm  to  see 
both  empiy.  He  hastily  dashed  tiie  ramrod  into  tiie  bar- 
rels.    The  charges  had  been  drawn  ! 

"  Now  exauiiue  your  horses'  feet,"  the  woman  added. 
"The  shoes  wei  e  g  ■o^  enough,  perhaps,  but  on  these  roads,  tna 
clenching  of  the  tprigs  is  apt  to  wear  faster  than  elsewhere. 


372  SUIL  DHQV^, 

The  Palatine  was  effected  even  to  trembling. 

"  You  c:iii>get  both  these  little  mischiefs  remedied  at  the 
other  side  of  the  hill,"  continued  Mrs.  SpeiUcy,  "  there  is 
a  forge  there.  And  here  is  your  ammauition,"  she  added, 
lianding  him  powder  aud  bid  from  a  corner  cupboard. 
'•  This  affcdr  may.  and  most  prob  ddy  loill  cost  me  my  life," 
she  said,  mournfully,  "  but  I  do  not  care  for  that.  All  that 
1  entreat  is  that  you  will  not  fire — oh — do  not !  until  you 
are  compelled,  I  have  my  reasons  for  this  request." 

Sjgur  held  out  his  hand  iu  silence,  and  wrung  hers  with 
kinduL'Ss  and  gr.ttitude. 

'•  Bless  you  !  0  Go  1,  God  bless  you  for  tliat  act !"  she 
exclaimed,  kissing  the  hand  with  a  bui'st  of  the  first  gene- 
rous heart-eising  tears  she  had  shed  for  many  a  long  day. 
"But  go — hiuvy — hurry — !"  she  added,  checking  her- 
stdf  and  risaig  hastily.  "  My  blessings  are  not  umiuous  of 
much  good.  Ride  hard  and  fast — the  night  wid  be  lost. 
Farewell,  sir!   Since  you  will  not  stay,  even  to  save  bbod." 

The  Palatinj  departed  iu  silence. 

"Now  1"  the  woman  exclaimed,  after  gazing  wit'i  fi-vcd 
and  staring  eyes  upou  the  old  nam,  until  hj  disappeared  to- 
gether witu  his  company  behind  the  hid  on  the  rear  of  the 
inn,  "Now,  Sir  ah,  your  time  is  come  !  Which  of  'em  i^  it 
to  be?  Eh,  whose  throat  hive  you  cut?  His  or  y  )ur 
husban  I's  ?  Tae  father  of  your  child^that  loved— diat 
trusted  you — that  tossed  his  life  into  your  hands  as  fre.dy 
as  he  would  his  money  into  a  st  ong  box.  You  have  armed 
his  worse  enemy  against  hiai !  Eh  ?  you  Dalilah  you  !  what 
have  yuu  done  ?  0  great  Heaven,  was  [  mad  ?  Come 
back?  llo,  ho  !  old  man,  cmuc  back!  He's  gone — he  [)re- 
tjneis  he  can't  hear  me,  because  he  hates  him  dea  Uy,  lutl 
lie  wau.s  io  take  hi:i  lifj  witii  th^  two  pistols  that  1  lo  uL'd 
f,.r  hill.  Ho!  ho!  ho!  bravely  d^ni',  wife.  You're  a  line 
hdv,  aru't  you?  Indeed  yoa  are.  0  my  boy,  my  chil  I, 
iny  tir^^t  and  onlydarhngl"  she  continued,  clasping  the 
terrified    urchin   wildly  to    hjr    bosdn— "0    my  h. 'art's 


THE  COINER.  873 

Kglit !  my  treasure !  Look  at  me  !  Do  you  };now  mc  ? 
I'm  your  mother  ;  and  I  sent  that  man,  that  gave  you  tlie 
tester,  you  know,  I  sent  him  to  shoot  your  father  !  Wasn't 
I  the  fine  mother  to  you  ?  Don't  curse  me,  you  young  vil- 
lain, or  I'll  clash  your  brains  out !  He  was  going  to  take 
the  life  of  my  friend,  and  I  took  his,  that's  all.  Don't  tell 
any  body,  darling.  0  my  love,  my  sweet  love — here  !  put 
your  li  tie  head  into  my  heart,  and  comfort  it,  for  it  is 
breaking,  and  burning,  and  leaping  within  me!  That's  it, 
my  dove,"  and  gathering  the  pale-faced  little  creature  with 
a  trembling  tenderness  to  her  heart,  she  suffered  the  torrent 
of  fierce  passion  to  which  she  had  abandoned  herself,  to 
die  away  in  murmurs  of  mouinfiil  fondness  and  agitation. 
Suddenly  starting  up,  and  thiowing  her  long  hair  l-iick 
from  her  ears,  she  reniained  in  an  attiiude  of  intense  atten- 
tion. "Ha! — Was  that  a  sliot?  Ko — not  yet — suie. 
Stay,  Dinny — i^tand  back,  sir.  What  am  I  to  do,  now  ? 
Hide  your  bl;  ck  eyes,  child,  I  can't  lotk  at  them,  'lie 
young  suihen  dhuv.  Look,  the  storm  will  soon  begin  i:o«  . 
Must  I  stay  here  all  alone  in  the  b'ack  night  until  one  or 
either  of  them  returns  to  me  ?  My  head  would  rive  and 
burst.  Stop,  stop  a  moment !  Wliat  if  the  storm  should 
come  on  dreadlully,  and  the  thunder,  and  lightning,  and 
rain  ?  and  hinder  his  passage  ?  He  can't  go  past  the  Crag 
road,  if  one  shower  more  should  moisten  the  earth,  under 

the  Carrig-ou-DhioL     0  send  it 0  Heaven,  forgiving 

Heaven,  look  at  me."  She  flung  herself  on  h(r  knee-, 
clasp:  d  and  wrung  her  hands,  as  she  looked  upward  in  a 
rapture  of  dcsp;  ir — "look  at  me  on  my  knees,  and  that's 
v.here  you  didn't  see  me  for  five  years  and  morc-^ — for  J 
dared  not  to  do  it — but  look  at  me  now,  praying  to  you  to 
send  down  all  your  thunders,  and  your  lightnii  gs,  and  your 
floods  of  rain,  and  keep  them  two  asunder  this  dieadtul 
nigbc  !  Do  i  for  your  own  glory,  if  not  in  pity  lo  them  or 
me,  fur  so  sure  as  they  meet,  there  will  be  blood  spilt  ir. 
your  sight ! — Uid  blood  tliat  will  lie  heavy  on  the  shedder'a 


S74  SUIL  DHUV, 

soul !  and  leave,  may  be,  an  angel  the  less  for  jour  bright 
kinjilom  !  Ha!  is  that  my  answer?"  she  exdaiiiied, 
stiirii'ig  from  the  earth,  as  a  distant  clattering  of  thuudcr 
soiii'.iled  through  the  silent  eveni.ig.  "  My  heart  does  not 
tell  me  that  my  prayer  is  heard,  as  it  used  to  do  when  I 
knelt  ill  my  father's  house.  My  conscience  is  louder  than 
the  thunder,  and  it  says,  that  I  deserve  no  mercy  !  What 
am  I  to  do  ?  I  can't  stay  here — to  hear  the  clock  tick,  and 
the  wind  blow,  while  my  brain  is  all  one  flame — I  have  it — 
I'll  know  all.  Here  Maney,  take  care  o'  the  child  !"  she 
exclaimed,  as  the  tall  fellow  presented  his  awkward  frame 
at  t!ie  door — and  dashing  fiercely  past  him,  she  huiried 
along  the  path  leading  to  the  Coiner's  retreat. 

In  the  mean  time,  Mr.  Segur,  Shine,  and  the  trotting 
guide,  Awnt^y  Farrel,  proceeded  on  their  way  towards  the 
for 40,  which  i\Irs.  Spellacy  had  indicated,  and  where  a  new 
accident  awaited  thi-m. 

As  they  app.oached  the  builling,  from  which  the  sound 
of  chin'dng  anvil  and  h  imnier  proceeded,  so  as  to  give  inti- 
mation of  the  premi:?es  being  pre-occnpied,  Sliine  obsei  ved 
their  guide  start  and  use  a  gesture  of  alarm.  The  action 
instantly  awakened  the  dormant  suspicions  of  the  preacher, 
who  was  not  oblivious  of  the  coaversatirm  on  the  brass 
coinage.  Awney,  however,  did  not  suffer  the  emotion  to 
remain  vi>ib'e  in  his  countenance  or  manner  lunger  than 
was  absolutely  necessary  to  establish  its  existence  even  for 
the  moment,  but  carelessly  turned  his  eyes  from  the  door  of 
tlr-  hovel 

It  was  a  low,  miserable-looking  shed,  the  raff^rs  br  iken, 
and  the  blackened  thatch  f  dling  in  in  various  places,  so  as 
to  give  free  admission  to  the  torrents  of  rain  which  were  of 
Ireipient  occurrence  on  this  mountain  district,  and  kept  the 
little  nndulaiions  of  the  eartlicrn  floor  constantly  supplied 
with  an  abundance  of  the  flind.  As  the  travellers  drew 
nearer  to  the  place,  an  elderly-lookinij,  dressy  soit  of  man, 
eqiiijjjod  at  all  points,  to  an  agony  of  elegance,  and  st.iuding 


J 


THE  COINER.  375 

(a  coarse,  iU-fashianed  block  of  clumsy  vulgarity)  in  the 
midst  of  a  blaze  of  liaery,  looking  like  a  black  ragged  cloud 
ill  a  sunny  sky — or  a  draught  of  muddy  innkeeper's  wine 
in  a  gold  tankard  (traveller's  fare),  presenting,  as  he  crept 
(juf  of  the  midst  of  a  cloud  of  black  smoke,  which  issued 
with  him  through  the  lov  battered  door  of  the  forge,  the 
most  apt  illustratioa  that  could  be  desired  of  the  hedge- 
school  doggrel — 

"  A  man  without  leamlncf  and  wearing  fine  clothes, 
Is  like  a  pig  witli  a  gold  ring  in  liis  nose." 

snch  a  being — leading  after  hi  n  a  fine  gelding,  caparisoned 
in  the  finest  style,  and  looking  a  great  deal  more  worthy  of 
those  fine  accautre nents  than  its  mister — such  a  being,  at- 
tired iu  a  full,  snow-white  wig  forming  a  frieze,  of  which  a 
shining,  jet-black,  soft-furred  hat  of  the  best  Limerick 
manufacture  was  the  capital — a  smart,  flowered  silk  waist- 
coat, and  fine  green  coat,  with  stlver-liilted  sword,  and  tight, 
plush  breeches,  the  shaft — and  a  pair  of  bright,  shining, 
clocked  silk  stockings,  with  shoes,  and  gigantic  silver  buckles, 
the  pedestal — such  a  being,  so  tine,  so  vulgar — issued,  like 
a  meteor  out  of  a  bog,  from  the  smoke  and  vapour  of  the 
miniature  ^E.na  of  this  Munster  Vulcan. 

"  Tnat  is  very  odd  what  you  tell  me,"  he  exclaimed,  ia 
a  long  County  Cork  drawl,  "  but  I'm  sure  it  isn't  true  for 
you.  I  don't  mean  to  doubt  your  word,  but  you  can't  say 
you  have  told  me  the  truth.  I  know  the  rogue  is  in  this 
neighbi'irhoxl,  and  I'll  find  him  too,  you  miy  be  sure." 

'•  Where  did  your  honour  see  him  ?"  asked  the  smith, 
susp  jiiding  his  sledge-hammer  in  the  hoUow  of  his  sooty  arm, 
while  he  directed  liis  eyes  to  the  newly-shod  feet  of  the 
gelding.  "  Because  if  it  be  long  sence,  there's  but  a  Flem- 
ish account  o'  the  two  o'  them  by  this  time." 

"  Hang  the  fellow,  and  his  stupid  eyes,  they  would  have 
impjsed  upon  a  Jew,  let  alone  a  County  Cork  grazier. 
His  '  'jjits,'  as  he  called  them  !     AVait  till  1  get  a  vacancy 


876  SCIL  DEUV, 

at  him,  l^\ 'git  h\m,  ?o  I  Avi!].  Forty  ponrcis,  sir!"  he 
continucfl,  turning  ronnd,  in  tlic  communicativeness  of  pas- 
sion, to  Sliine,  -who  had  just  ridden  np,  and  was  beginning 
to  listen  with  a  cruel  anxiety  and  .nterest  to  his  complaints 
• — "forty  foiirds  the  fellow  cl  eated  me  of,  for  such  trash 
as  this!"  holding  out  several  ingots,  on  one  of  \\hich  a 
quantity  of  verdigris  had  ccl'ected,  which,  combining  in- 
stantly, and  by  a  vivid  fssociafion  of  ideas  with  Maney's 
memorable  parting  leer,  showed  like  a  hcrrid  spectre  in  the 
eyes  of  the  prer  ch.er. 

"Have  you  tried  them,  sir?"  he  asked  in  a  faint  and 
failing  voice,  while  big  drops  of  perspiration  began  to 
sparkle  on  his  nose  and  forehead. 

"  Try  'em  !"  exclaimed  the  man  of  the  Mhite  wig,  "  Avly, 
sir,  look  !"  and  with  great  agility  he  ■\\hi]  pcd  a  small  bottle 
of  aquafortis  from  his  flapped  pocket,  uncorked  it  with  his 
teeth,  and  poured  a  little  on  the  metal.  A  sudden  f-injiner- 
ing,  and  then  a  dark  steam  arising,  left  no  spell  to  raise  the 
ghost  of  a  doubt  upon  the  quality  of  the  ingot. 

"  It's  not  gold,  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Shine,  moumfiilly. 

"  Gold  !"  shouted  he  of  th.e  silver  buckles,  "  sir,  'tis  not 
only  brass,  but  bad  brass  !" 

"The  same  goold  that's  in  the  copper  kettles,"  said  the 
smith,  grinning  through  his  black  lips. 

"Who  gave  it — to — you  ?'  asked  the  preacher,  hesitat- 
ingly, his  hand  wandering  fearfully  about  the  pocket  in 
vhich  he  had  deposited  his  own  treasure. 

"  Poll !  1  oh  !  I'm  ashamed  to  tell  you — hut  it  was  a  If  ng 
stupid  fellow,  with  a  story  of  an  old  abbey,  and  his  land- 
lord, and  his  royalty,  and  I  can't  know  how  much  trash  be- 
sides—  One  Mancy  O'Neil,  the  groatest  rogue  unhanged  in 
Munstcr,  and  that's  a  bold  woid." 

Mr.  Shine  groaned  audibly.  He  need  not  have  blushed, 
however,  at  finding  himself  IboUd  by  a  n';  n.  v.  ho  had,  with 
the  same  tale,  imposed  u|  on  n.en  of  naik  and  learning  far 
surjerior  to  his. 


-■'? 


THE  COINER.  3  77 

**  A  fellow  tliat  travels  about  in  company  -with  a  Dubliu 
clea'-boy,  named  Awney  Farrel,"  continued  tlie  complain- 
ant, "  a  .'■haijj-faced  young — ha! "he  paused  as  his 

eyes  fell  on  the  guide,  who  stood  close  at  his  elbow. 

Instead  of  appearing  at  all  disconcerted,  Awney  blinded 
invitingly  w  ith  his  eyes,  tossed  his  head  back,  and  beckoned 
the  gentleman  of  the  silver  hilt  to  step  aside  Avith  him. 
The  latter  followed  in  some  brow-knitting  suspicion  and 
1  esitation,  which,  however,  began  to  dissipate  and  brighten 
up  under  the  influence  of  the  information,  whatever  it  was, 
that  ihe  guide  was  conveying  to  him  with  an  infinite  deal 
of  gestiu-e  and  grimace.  They  often  looked  and  nodded 
their  heads  towards  Shine,  Avho  remained  fixed  in  an  atti- 
tude of  as  much  honor  as  so  fat  a  man  could  assume — his 
globular  hands  clasped  before  him,  his  lips  disparted,  and 
his  eyes  staring  heavily  on  the  distance.  After  a  little  time 
the  man  of  the  p!u-h  breeches  laid  his  finger  along  the  side 
of  his  nose,  protruding  his  brow  and  lips,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "  I  understard  you  ;"  and  Awney  with  one  farewell 
wink  bounded  over  the  ditch  at  the  road-side  and  disap- 
peared, both  Shine  and  Segur  being  too  much  occupied  with 
their  own  thoughts  to  observe  his  desertion. 

While  the  unhappy  purchaser  of  the  single  ingot  remained 
in  a  state  of  suspense,  which  momently  approached  the  verge 
of  agony,  the  man  of  the  clocked  stockings  beckoned  to  a  pair 
of  myrmidons  in  the  forge,  w  ho  presently  made  their  appear- 
ance at  the  door,  w  ith  red,  sulky  eyes,  and  coarse,  trim-cut 
frieze  body-coats  buttoned  on  their  stout,  squat  frames  Avith 
horn  taches,  and  suffering  a  gleam  of  red  to  appear  at  the 
breast,  like  the  ominous  streak  in  the  dawn  of  a  gray  morn  at 
the  equiuox.  lie  of  the  soft-furred  hat  pointed  towards 
Shine  and  clapped  his  OAvn  elbow  to  his  sides,  signifying  to 
them  what  course  they  should  adopt,  adding  some  farther 
hints  concerning  his  amazing  strength  and  agility,  which 
were  not  lost  upon  the  hearers. 

The  preacher  was  just  iu  the  act  of  heaving  a  piofound 


378  suiL  Diiuv, 

sigh,  wlicn  I'lis  arms  were  suddenly  pinioned  down,  one  man 
knocking  off  lus  hat,  another  throwing  a  small  bag,  or 
Johny  Doe,  such  as  the  carmen  feed  their  horses  in,  ovet 
his  head,  and  drawing  the  ruiniing  string  about  his  nec'c, 
wiiile  a  third  ran  with  a  piece  of  jack-line  two  or  three 
swift  circuits  about  him,  as  the  hound  does  about  a  buffalo 
at  bay,  belaying  the  tether  finally  in  the  angle  (the  only 
anglethat  could  be  found  in  the  preacher's  wholeperson'jof  his 
elbow.  Th's  done  in  less  time  than  one  might  take  in  sup- 
posing it,  the  man  of  the  wigLnsnrely  tripped  up  his  heels, 
and  laid  the  poor  culprit,  as  they  do  a  huge  turtle,  on  "  the 
broad  of  his  back,"  on  the  road,  where  he  remained  help- 
less and  too  utterly  overwhelmed  with  astonishment  to  give 
vent  to  a  rem  )iistratory  groan.  In  fact,  the  whole  affiiir 
was  over  before  one  thought  could  have  displaced  another 
in  his  mind. 

"  Now  for  it !  the  f  >x  is  bagged  !"  shouted  the  bnch  (fir 
such  the  grazier  was  allowed  to  be)  —  "Ah,  ha!  I  thought 
so!"  as  he  drew  from  the  pocket  of  the  prostrate,  passive, 
vanquished  hero,  the  ingot,  the  fital  ingot  which  was 
destined  to  be  a  still  dearer  purchase  to  the  buj'er  than  it 
had  already  proved. 

"Is  it  brass?"  exclaimed  the  latter,  half-stifled  by  the 
bag  in  which  his  head  was  immersed,  and  yet  anxiously 
alive  to  the  investigation  which  was  going  forward. 

"  Indeed,  then,  it  is  brass,  and  yoiCre  bras-',  and  bold 
brass  that  asks  the  question,"  returned  he  of  the  green 
coat.  "  No  use  in  your  talking,  sir,"  he  said  in  answer  to 
the  remonstrances  of  Segur,  who  made  an  effort  at  the 
liberation  of  his  companion,  not  being  aware  that  the  fine 
grazier  was  one  of  those  blockheads  who  think  it  manly 
an!  'lecommg  to  b>  nb-^tinate,  and  cling  to  a  mis"onception 
with  the  same  sort  of  fa'herly  kindness  which  would  induce 
them  to  stand  by  an  nglv  son  in  a  scrape — "  No  use  in  your 
talking,  I  have  takea  the  man  in  flagrante  delicto,  with 
t!ia  gnods  upon  hi;n,  and  my  prisoner  he  shall  remain   for 


THE  COINEE.  879 

this  niglit  at  lenst.  However,  at  yonr  desire,  as  jou  pro- 
fess a  knowledge  of  his  person,  I  will  remove  the  blirid 
from  his  eyes  ;  and  if  you  thiak  you  can  be  of  service  to 
liim,  I  am  going-  to  spend  the  night  at  the  house  of  my 
niece  Miss  Lilly  Byrne,  of  Drumscanlon,  on  the  Crag  road." 

"  We  are  travelling  the  same  way  at  all  events,"  said 
Segnr,  "  so  I  will  siiy  no  more  on  the  subject  until  we  ar- 
rive at  the  means  of  convincing  you  of  this  man's  respecta- 
bility. How  he  has  chanced  upon  that  ingot,  I  cannot 
conceive." 

"  \'/e'll  explain  all  at  Lilly's  table,  at  supper,"  said  the 
man  of  the  buckk's,  merrily,  as  they  rode  off  (repaired  at 
all  |)uiiits)  together. 

"  At  supper,  inigh  ?  An  unaisy  supper  yc'll  have  of 
it,  I'm  thiukin,"  said  sh;'  smith,  shaking  his  head,  and  slowly 
re-entering  the  forge.  "That's  a  bad  matter  for  Suil  Dhuv, 
whoever  told  the  travellers  about  the  shoes,  the  odds  are 
against  him  now,  any  way." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Sec  how  the  pangs  of  death  d)  make  liim  grin. 

if  thi)u  t'linkest  on  heavea's  grace 

Hold  lip  thy  hand — make  sigaal  of  thy  hope — 
He  dies  and  makes  no  sign ! 

Kiiifj  Henry   VI. 

The  dinging  of  hammers,  the  creaking  of  stamping-presses, 
the  rasping  of  file<,  and  the  low  murmuring  of  human 
voices  were  the  fir-t  sounds  that  assailed  the  ears  of  poor 
Kumba  on  his  recovorv  from  the  stupor  in'o  which  he  had 
bjin  casL  by  the  practised  hand  of  Ked  RoJy.  He  opened 
his  tyes,  and  gazi^d,  still  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness,  upon 
the  iijvulutions  of  the  dense  culm  of  smoke  tliat  floated 
above  him,  and  which,  partially  illustr.sted  as  it  w;.»  at  iu- 


380  SUIL  DHUV, 

tervals  by  the  flickering  bl.i.ze  of  the  furnace,  brought  to 
bis  reviving  imngination  a  thousand  vague  and  wandering 
images  that  abnost  unconsciously  referred  themselves  to  liis 
accident,  a  fatal  termination,  and  an  awalvcning  in  the 
centre  of  the  new  and  fearful  woild  to  which  his  last  terrified 
thoughts  had  been  hurried,  even  in  the  agitation  of  the 
struggle  itself.  The  illusion  was  not  dissipated  by  the 
vision  of  the  white-haired  murderer,  Rody,  who  tottered 
towards  him,  and  remained  for  a  few  seconds  gazing  down 
upon  him  with  as  much  steadiness  as  his  palsy  would  suffer 
him  to  assume,  and  smiling  through  his  chipped  and  blood- 
less lips,  as  the  young  man,  from  an  instinct  of  apprehen- 
sion checked  the  returning  symptoms  of  animation,  and  suf- 
fered tiie half-raised  lids  once  more  to  close  over  his  eye-balls. 

"  What  would  you  do  if  you  had  done  for  him,  Rody, 
eroo  ?"  asked  a  soft  voice  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room, 
the  tones  of  which  brought  a  pleasing  association  into 
Kumba's  mind,  as  they  resembled  those  which  hud  pleaded 
for  him  in  the  fray  with  the  Coiners. 

"  0,  hugh  !  Oh,  there's  many  a  bit  and  a  sup  between 
him  and  the  undertaker  yit,"  said  the  old  coiner.  '*  I  don't 
know  what  I'll  do  here,  watchen.  Jerry,  I  wish  you  went 
to  the  cupboord  an  brought  ns  the  makens  of  a  jug  o' 
punch.  Ah,  Jerry,  Jerry,  ould  times,  ould  times  for  ever ! 
Get  ns  the  dhew  till  we  drink  Redmond  O'Hanlon  in 
a  big  boomper.  I  saw  him  a  week  before  he  was  shot 
in  the  barn,  an'  lashens  o'  Iceogh  we  had  together,  the  two 

of  us.     As  I  was hugh  !  hugh!   hugh!     Eyeh!   the 

voice  is  gone  wit  me  now,  Jerry,  an'  yet  I  used  to  sing  waust 
of  a  time only  this  cough,  and  my  back,  0  ! 

'As  I  was  sitting  in  my  room, 
All  in  the  merry  merry  month  o'  June — 
I  heerd  a  thrush  sing  in  a  bush, 
An'  the  song  she  sung  was  the  Jug  o'  Pounctl 

Fal  law  raw  li ! 

Till  (li  rum  day 
Tol  fol  ti-     ridum  !  Duni  fileum  tay  !' 


THE  COINER.  SSI 

Hngh !  Imgh !  I'm  afeerd  o'  waken  the  dacint  lad  here 
near  me.  How  nate  I  could  slip  the  windpipe  now  just 
where  he  lies,  so  quite  an'  easy.  Aih,  Jerry!  look  !  jest 
as  tliey  does  the  slieep.  I'd  give  you  lave  to  hang  me,  to 
that  rafter,  av  he  ever  gave  as  inooch  as  a  groan  after  it. 
Have  you  the  poonch  ready  yit  ?  Give  it  here!  Hould 
my  arm !  0  this  shake  !  Isn't  it  droll  I  usu't  uvur  to 
have  this  cough  and  shake  whin  I  was  in  the  Small  County, 
and  \N  it  the  lads  formerly  ?" 

"  How  long  is  that  ago  now,  Rody  ?"  asked  Jerry. 
"  Why  thin,  as  good  as  thirty  years,  or  from  that  to 
forty,  and  better,  may  be,"  the  other  answered  mnsingly. 
"  An  inch  in  a  man's  nose  is  a  graat  d;de  for  all,  Rody  1" 
Jerry  returned  diily  ;  "but  still,  it  is  a  droll  thing  that  a 
man  should  have  more  ;iilnients  an'  things  at  sixty-eight 
than  he  had  forty  years  before." 

"  Noan   o'  your   funnen,    you  young  colleen*   you ! — 
We  can't  expect  to  live  always,  and  though  I  abn't  seventy 
yet,  I  know  I  must  die  soom  time  or  another.    'Tisn't  age 
that  always  kills  people,  Jerry — and  a  man  has  no  more 
a  lase  of  his  life  at  seventy  than  he  has  at  a  hoondi'cd — 
'Ye  jovial' — Gi'  me  the  poonch,  Imgh  !  hugh  ! 
'Ye  jovial  fellows  that  pass  b}", 
Av  ye  don't  b  live  it— step  in  an  thry  ! 
Step  in  an'  thry,  an'  nuvur  flinch 
To  dip  your  nose  in  the  jug  o'  poonch! 
Fal  law  raw  IL ! 
Tol  di  rum  day ! 
To!  fal  ti  ridum  !   Dum  fileum  tay!' 

"  No,  Jerry,"  he  continued,  after  elevating  the  firry 
liquid  to  his  lips  and  swallowing  a  prodigious  draught ; 
"  I  know  I'm  to  have  my  day  as  Avell  as  another,  and  I 
mane  to  prepare  for  it  too,  and  that's  more  than  yon 
thought,  I  b'lieve. 

'  When  I  am  dead,  an'  in  mj'  grave^ 

No  costly  monumint  will  I  halve 

*  Little  girl 


S82  SUIL  DHL'r, 

But  let  my  grave  be  short  and  sweet, 

With  a  Jug  o'  PoDiK'h  at  my  head  and  feet! 

Fal  law  raw  li  ! 

Tol  di  rum  day ! 
Tol  fal  ti  ridiim  !   Dum  fileum  tay !' 

I'll  wait,  Jerry,  till  I'm  just  seventy ;  an'  thin  I'll  turn 
over  a  new  l;ife,  and  bj  quit  o'  those  doens.  I'll  1:0  to  my 
Aisfer  duty,  an'  I'll  give  three  tinpennies  to  the  priest,  an' 
a  tinpenny  to  the  dark,  an'  a  pair  0'  mould  c.mdies  fur  thi> 
althcr,  and  I'll  have  my  bottle  0'  holy  water,  and  my  bades, 
and  I'll  make  my  rounds  at  Tubbermuirra  Well  at  C.nidlc- 
mas,  and  I'll  get  my  ashes  ov  an  Ash  Wensday,  an'  my  bit 
0'  pahn  ov  a  Palm  Sunday,  an'  my  little  coal  ov  an  Aister 
Saturday,  an'  my  block  at  Christinass,  an'  I'll  do  like  the 
Christhins  for  the  rest  0'  my  days;  seeing  would  I  do 
soomth(  n  fur  the  poor  sow!  agin  she  goes,  be  the  dint  0' 
pinnince;  that's  what  I'll  do,  an' I'll  rise  out  o'ye,  and  ye'r 
coiucn  an'  murderen,  all  out,  that's  Avhat  I  will." 

"  E'  (hen,  Rody,  since  that's  what  you're  after,  what 
should  ail  you  that  you  wouldn't  take  a  short  stick  in  your 
hand,  and  be  off  at  once,  slap  !  like  cock-shot  agin  a  barn 
door  ?" 

"  Poh  !  didn't  I  say  whin  I  was  seventy  all  out  ?  'Tisu't 
far  from  me  now,  and — " 

'llie  intcrlocutois  were  cut  short  in  their  conference  by  a 
tapping  at  the  little  door.  The  word  passed,  and  was  an- 
swered by  a  female  voice. 

"'Tis  the  niissiz  herself!"  said  Jerry  in  amaze,  as  he 
opened  the  door. 

The  woman  rushed  into  the  room  nearly  in  the  same 
state  of  agitation  as  that  in  whicli  she  h  ft  the  inn.  Her 
hj'.ir,  now  jjerfectly  dishevelled  and  dabbled  in  rain,  hung 
loose  upoa  her  shoulders — her  brow  was  turn  by  the  briars, 
and  stained  with  blood — her  limbs  shaking,  and  her  largo 
eyes  wandering  in  eager  scrutiny  over  every  object  that  was 
presented  to  them,  as  she  rapidly  hurried  fioni  place  to 
jjlace. 


THK  COINER.  38.1 

"  Where's — lia !  Jeny — No — not  you  !  Who's  this  ? 
Rocly — ha!   bloodsucker!  stand  aside.     Who's  this?" 

"  Hush  !  hush !"  both  pointed  to  Kumba,  and  made 
signs  to  the  woman  to  ba  sih  nt. 

"  Wiio  ?  Mr.  Kumba  ?  What!  wliy  is  he  not  gone  ?  Ilal 
blood  too ;  0,  I  see  it ;  Up,  up,  sir,  up  ;  you  are  betrayed 
and  laughed  at.      Up,  and  come  with  nic." 

"  Jeny,  darlen,  shet  the  doore,  lock  it,  an'  gi'  me  the 
kay,"  coughed  out  Red  Kody. 

"  Jerry,  leave  the  door  open  until  Mr.  Kumba  and  I  have 
passed  through,  if  you  value  yoar  neck,"  said  the  woman 
fiercely. 

"'Deed,  ma'am,  av  I'm  a  bloodsucher  I'll  do  my  duty, 
I  have  an  old  knack  that  way,"  said  Rody,  sulkily  hob- 
bling towaids  the  door. 

"  Bloodsucker,  that  you  are  (and  it  is  a  riddle  to  me 
that  you  should  be  stung  by  another  giving  you  a  name  tliat 
is  your  own  boast,)  stand  trora  the  door.  Do  you  know  me  i'" 

"  I  know  your  husband  better,"  growled  the  ruffian. 

"  Then,  mind  me — if  you  fear  his  anger  obey  me." 

"I  don't  know  what  rilashnn  tliey  have  at  al',  wan  to 
another,  your  commands  and  his  anger,"  muttered  the  \ya\- 
sied  wretch,  placing  his  back  to  the  door,  and  examining 
the  lock  of  a  large  liorse  pistol. 

"  If  you  will  not  release  this  gentleman,  Suil  Dhuv  shall 
never  see  my  face  again." 

"  0  thin,  who  knows  whether  that's  what  would  bring 
his  anger  upon  us  ?"  the  old  tellow  said  chuckling. 

"  Ha  !"  exclaimed  the  woman,  "  I  thought  it,  I  knew 
it,"  and  she  slapped  lier  hands  together  like  one  who  liad 
suddenly  solved  an  agonizing  doubt.  "  I'm  sold,  and  his 
friend  is  betrayed.  Tlumk  you  husband,  I've  caught  you, 
sir.  Up,  up,  Mr.  Kumba.  Right  ycars'lf,  sir,  if  jou're 
a  man.  There's  your  enemy,"  she  clapped  the  startled 
youth  upon  the  shouklor,  and  poLmed  to  Red  Rody,  who 
u.aiutained  his  defensive  position. 


884  SlUL  DHUV, 

Kumba,  wlio.^o  disgust  had  been  at  first  strongly  escite  1 
by  the  approach  of  his  fiilse  friend's  wife,  was  not  sii.ffi- 
ciently  disabled  by  the  effects  of  the  blow  he  hsd  received 
to  prevent  his  gathering  from  the  conversation  a  perfect 
knowledge  of  his  situation,  and  of  the  motives  of  thf  Suil 
Dhuv.  The  one  fired,  the  other  strengthened  him.  He  looked 
first  at  Jerry,  who  stood  irresolute,  and  apparently  disposed 
to  ncutri^lity,  in  the  corner  ;  and  having  satisfied  himself  that 
there  was  no  detwinined  opposition  to  be  apprehended  from 
that  quarter,  he  v.aved  his  hand  to  Rody  to  stand  aside  : 
the  other,  influenced  by  his  natural  or  acquired  habits  of 
viol  nee — and  stimulated  still  more  highly  by  the  potations 
in  which  he  had  been  indidging,  refused  to  obey,  and  ele- 
vated the  pistol  \\ith  a  menacing  look. 

Without  bestowing  a  more  serious  thought  on  the  chances 
of  a  struggle  than  he  would  have  experienced  before  whip- 
ping a  cur  from  his  path,  Kumba,  darted  on  the  old  man, 
caugi't  him  by  the  breast,  and  sent  him  spinning  round 
against  the  press.  There  was  a  report  of  a  pistol,  a  sudden 
hu'.rying  together  of  several  figures,  a  scream,  a  hoarse 
curse,  a  crashing  of  bolts  and  stamping  of  many  feet,  and 
the  place  was  clear  of  all  but  the  fiiir-faced  Jerry  and  the 
old  man,  Avhom  he  upheld  apparently  with  an  effort  from 
the  fl'ior. 

"'T^vas  Heaven  did  it,  and  not  the  gentleman,"  said 
Jerry  ;    "  how  do  you  feel  yourself,  Rody,  a  gra  ?" 

"  Aih  ?  0  poorly,  wisha,  poorly  enough,  Jerry,  thanky." 

"  It's  late  for  pinnince  now  I'm  afeerd,  Rody  ?" 

"Wisha,  I'm  afeerd  so,  I  abu't  very  well,  I  abn't  me- 
self  at  all  rightly." 

"  No  wondher,  sure.  There's  a  hole  in  your  neck  here 
as  big  as  a  button.  How  cooni  you  to  handle  the  pistil  so 
awkward,  Rody  ?" 

"  Wisha,  I  dun  know.  It  went  off  betune  my  fingers 
someway,  very  foolish.  Hould  me  np  a  little.  There's  a 
great  vvakeness  comen  upon  me  all  of  a  hape  intirely." 


THE  COINER.  _  o85 

*' Don't  fay  so,   Eody,  eroo.    AVill  I  run  for  the  priest?" 

'•'•Aih?  .  .  .  piiest?  0!  Eh,  Jerry  eroo,  what's  that 
in  the  dark  ?" 

"  Whore,  eroo  ?" 

"Look,  ?gra  !  Look  at  Tim  Henessy!  Look  at  him 
shaken  his  liond  at  mi'  !" 

"  Tim  Hene-sy,  inagh  ?  Erra,  is  it  the  man  you  murthered 
that  Avould  be  there  ?"  said  Jerry,  in  a  tone  of  remonstra- 
toiy  ast<  r.islmient. 

"  Kot  Guilty,  my  lord  and  gintlemin,  'twasn't  I  did  it. 
Was  it,  Jerry  ?  Aih,  0  stand  betime  iiz,  Jerry,  alaimv  ! 
It's  no  use,  for  here's  Mickey  Keys  at  ih:;  oilier  side  o'  nr.e 
grinnen'  down  on  nie  !" 

"  Well,  that's  the  crackedest  thing  I  ever  heerd,  Rody. 
Didn't  you  shoot  him  stone  dead  with  your  own  hand,  and 
now  to  be  sayen'  he's  there  grinnen'.  He  has  soonilheu' 
else  to  do  besides  maken'  them  faces." 

"  Would  you  have  a  loand  o'  the  whiskey  bottle  you'd 
give  us,  Jerry?  Stay!  Aisy  a  while!  0  the  pain,  the 
pain,  entirely,  you  see,  that's  what's  kdlen'  me.  I'm  get- 
ting very  could.  Jerry.    'Tisn't  ficezen'  agin  I  believe  ?" 

"Freezen'!"  shouted  Jerry,' "d'ye  bear  what  he  calls 
the  finest,  soft,  moist  evenen'  that  ?  Eh  !  why  Eody,  Rody. 
I  say  agin  !  what's  the  matter  ?  Rody  !  Stir  up,  man. 
He's  dyen',  I  b'lieve,  0  murther,  entirely,  he's  goen',  he's 
stiff'nen'." 

He  paused  and  gazed  on  the  dying  wretch,  who  re- 
mained in  his  arms  gasping  for  breath,  while  he  stared  fear- 
fully on  the  broad  black  darkness  above  him,  Avhich  his 
memory,  now  for  the  first  time  startled  from  her  sleep  of 
indifference  by  the  baying  of  the  hell-hound  Conscience, 
liad  peOjjled  with  the  shadows  of  his  many  victims.  He 
shiunk  back,  shivered,  dropped  Lis  jaws,  Avhich  clattered 
like  a  pair  of  castanets,  his  lips  became  dragged  and  livid, 
his  teeth  set,  and  he  la}-  stark  and  cold  in  the  arms  of  the 
terrified  accomplice  of  his  crimes,  and  witness  of  his  blas- 
17 


386  suiL  Dnirv» 

pheraic3,  a  horrible  spectacle  of  the  suJden  vengeance  of  a 
lon<r-sufl*erhi!r  but  wakeful  Providence. 


The  black  speck  which  ttie  Coiner's  wife  bad  indicated 
in  the  red  evening  sunlight,  was  now  a  broad  mass  of  va- 
pour, darkening  the  region  of  the  temp  'sts  from  one  point 
of  the  horizon  to  the  other,  and  presenting,  in  the  swift 
gradations  of  its  progress  from  insignificance  to  grandeur, 
a  magnificent  and  ter>-ific  emblem  of  the  spreading  domi- 
nion of  crime  in  the  human  soul,  from  the  slight  neglect  of 
a  wandei'ing  thought  in  devotion  to  the  awful  and  tumul- 
tuous blackness  of  impenitent  despair  itself.  The  first  thin 
sheeted  flashes  of  a  reddish  lightning  ha  1  b'^gun  to  quiver 
and  play  on  the  gloomy  expanse,  revealing  at  fitful  inter- 
vals the  jags  and  unevennesses  of  the  otherwise  undistin- 
guishable  fragments  of  vapour  in  a  thousand  fiintastical 
images.  Our  travellers,  who  had  advanced  little  more  than 
a  mile  from  the  inn  before  these  ch  \nges  began  to  make 
themselves  visible,  looked  upon  tiiem  with  no  little  anxiety, 
originating  however  in  very  ditfercnt  conditions  of  feeling 
and  situation.  Tlie  old  Palatine,  whose  determination  to 
proceed  appeared  to  increase  in  p-oporiion  to  the  obst  idea 
which  amassed  on  his  route,  and  tlie  arguments  which  were 
employed  to  dissuade  him,  observed  a  profound  silence  ;  and 
except  by  an  impatient  glance  or  gesture  which  he  used  ou 
every  trifling  pause  made  by  his  comjianions,  seemed  almost 
unconscious  of  their  presence.  jMr.  Shine,  whose  spirits 
had  not  yet  recovered  the  shock  which  the  discovery  of 
Maney's  cheat  had  occasioned  him,  remained  pinioned  ou 
his  pony,  riding  between  both  the  "  r  .hineen  redbreasts,'" 
as  the  gentleman  of  the  wig  and  buckles  termed  his  myr- 
midons— the  little  canvas  bag,  or  John  Doe,  hanging  down 
over  his  back  in  the  fashion  of  a  hood,  and  fn'ly  prepared, 
in  case  of  any  attempt  to  recover  his  liberty,  of  which  the 
Cork  grazier  appeared  singularly  ap[irehcnsive,  to  be  re- 
stored to  its  ancient  use  by  a  slight  check  of  the  string  which 


THE  COINER  387 

was  suspended  fi'om  liisneck.  The  fine  gentleman  was  (he 
only  talkative  |iersou  of  the  party.  He  rode  on— hmg 
back. — t'otted  from  side  to  side — made  an  unheeded  oi)- 
servation  in  the  ear  of  the  pensive  Segur  on  the  state  of 
the  weather — intimated  to  Shine  in  a  menacing  way  the 
utterfrnitlcssn^ss  of  any  corporeal  resistance  against.his  cap- 
tors, whispered  his  men  to  be  on  their  guard,  for  that  big 
fat  man  was  the  strongest  "  warrant,"  at  a  hurley,  and  the 
best  leapcrin  all  Ireland — then,  having  exhatis'ed  every  sub- 
ject that  might  be  suggested  by  the  circumstances  of  each 
of  his  companions,  without  eliciting  any  considerable  por- 
tion of  information,  he  fell  back  as  a  last  resource  upon  him- 
self— arranged  his  wig — adjusted  his  sword  belt,  looked  up 
at  the  heavens — loosened  the  string  of  a  tiglitly-p  icked 
loody  or  great-coat — and  trembled  for  his  head-gear — gave 
a  history  in  detail  of  the  lives,  characters,  fortunes,  and  fa- 
shions of  all  the  master  tailors  in  Cork — struck  off  by  a  by- 
road to  the  price  of  i)igs  and  cattle — convinced  the  passive 
Shine  by  the  most  unexceptionable  syllogisms  that  twenty 
geese  would  consume,  to  a  blade,  i>s  much  grass  as  any  cow 
— that  bony  pigs  were  always  the  best  to  buy  on  a  fatten- 
ing specuLitii.iu — that  bog  dust  was  as  fine  manure  as  any 
for  a  red  s jil — that  it  was  the  greatest  mistake  to  say  the 
Limerick  girls  were  the  handsomest  in  Ireland — that  the 
lightning  was  perfectly  iuiiocuuus,  as  long  as  it  maintained 
its  reddish  hue — that  Catholicism,  particul  irly  as  regarded 
Lent  and  Advent,  was  everything  but  a  reasonable  creed 
— [the  only  point  on  which  he  obtained  the  semblance  of 
an  answer  from  the  preacher] — that  Dean  Swift  would  be 
hanged  as  suie  as  there  was  a  cottoner  in  Cork,  and  there 
were  plenty,  sure,  and  good  ones,  too — that  he  himself  was 
the  most  fashionable  personage  in  the  South  of  Lehind — • 
and  Lord  Cartaret,  the  best  Lord-Lieutenant  that  ever  lived 
before  or  after  the  flood — and  a  thousand  other  thaU  with 
which  the  necessities  of  our  tale  will  uot  permit  us  to  en- 
cumber the  reader's  mind. 


dS8  8UIL  DIIUV, 

On  a  sudden  a  bl;ie  straggling  light  darted  across  (lie 
heavens,  and  a  deep,  rending  crasii  of  thunder  seemed  to 
tear  the  region  from  one  extremity  to  the  otlier.  The  un- 
checked and  absolute  Idackness  v.hich  ens«cd,  left  the  party 
in  so  benighted  a  condition  ttiat  all  stoi)t  short,  as  if  by  a 
sympathy  of  intelligence.  Tlie  ho;?es,  startled  by  the  sud- 
denness of  the  trniisition,  chafed,  demi-voUed,  and  finally 
remained  stock  still  under  their  riders,  snorting  and  champ- 
ing the  bit  in  the  impatience  of  strong  terror.  A  moment 
after,  as  if  the  windows  of  heaven  had  been  opened  for  a 
fjccond  deluge,  a  torrent  of  thunder  drops  was  jioured  upon 
the  travellers,  so  dense,  so  sudden,  and  so  unflinchingly 
continued,  that  each  particular  individual  in  iiis  own  square 
foot  of  spice  received  as  much  as  would  have  served  him 
for  a  bath. 

The  terrors  of  the  storm  now  commcncod  in  all  their 
magnitude  and  grandeur.  The  thunder  bellowrd,  howled, 
and  cJattert^d  ;  the  liglitning  flared,  and  darted  in  wheeling 
circles  and  angles  of  painful  lirilliancy,  before  and  about 
them.  Sometimes  a  strong  bolt,  launched  from  the  black 
■wondj  of  the  vapour  in  vvhich  it  was  generated,  hissed 
fiercely  th^-ough  the  sparkling  rain,  and  breaking  with  a 
rapid  violence  into  a  thousand  lines  of  blue  and  dazzling 
splendour,  lit  up  the  vaulted  vast  of  darkness  into  a  mo- 
mentary no»n,  which  was  as  suddenly  changed  to  a  gloom 
as  dense  as  that  which  was  made  palpable  in  the  bands  of 
the  Egyptian  spoilers.  Then  there  was  the  silence  of  a 
second,  deep  and  terrible,  a  hush  of  all  nature,  unbroken 
even  by  the  breathing  of  the  pale  and  anxious  wanderers, 
and  immediately  afier,  a  rattling  close  above  their  heads,  at 
fii-st  quick,  harsh,  and  jarring,  like  the  clatter  of  a  musket 
volley,  and  gradually  deepening  and  swelling  as  it  recid  d, 
till  its  echoes  b'lomed  in  the  abyss  of  distance  like  the  roar 
of  a  million  park  of  artillery. 

"  Whish  !  hoo  !"  the  grazier  exclaimed,  placing  his  hand 
above  hiis  car,  and  endeavouring  to  check  the  plunging  of 


THE  COINER. 


389 


his  steed  ;   "did  any  body  hear  a  '  holloo'  behind  us?  Ha, 
til  ere  it  is  again  !" 

"  Tis  the  wind  that's  splitting  itself  upon  the  Corrig-ou- 
Dhiol,"*  said  one  of  his  retainers. 

Another  thundei'chip  drowned  the  respons'e  to  this  con- 
jf  cture,  and  in  the  intervals  of  its  expiring  peals,  the  distant 
and  long- protracted  cry  of  a  man's  voice  proved  it  to  be  an 
erroneotis  one. 

"  1  have  my  reasons,"  said  the  Palatine  Avith  a  gesture 
of  alarm,  laving  his  hand  on  the  grazier's  arm,  "  for  not 
delaying  an  instant.  Let  us  dash  forward,  in  the  name  of 
lleaven !" 

Again  the  imploring  cry,  renewed  at  a  much  more  audible 
distatice,  seemed  to  appeal  against  this  selfish  counsel  to 
the  good  feelings  of  the  party.  It  was  not  altogether  the 
influence  of  mere  good  feeling,  however,  which  induced  the 
objtinate  gentleman  of  the  sword  and  buckles  to  enter  his 
recusat  ag^.iust  the  old  Palatine's  proposition.  The  slighting 
taciiuriiily  with  which  the  latter  had  treated  him  during- 
tlie  juurney  had  predisposed  hiui  to  adopt  the  contrary 
course,  whatever  it  might  be,  to  any  which  should  be  re- 
commended by  the  old  man.  lie  plucked  his  arm  pettishly 
away  from  the  gia-p  of  the  latter,  and  instantly  reined  up 
his  steed.  Either  unwilling  to  persevere  in  what  appeared 
an  unldndly  procedure,  or  acting  under  the  guidance  of 
that  jiierciag  sagacity  vviiich  enables  some  men  to  discover 
in  a  glance,  a  tone,  a  gesture — nay,  in  the  very  manner  of 
an  affectation  itself,  a  tolerable  indication  of  the  whole  nia- 
chim  ry  of  the  characters  of  those  with  whom  they  come  in 
contact — acting,  I  say,  under  this  influence,  and  perceiving 
the  absolute  hopelessness  of  any  attempt  to  oversway  the 
digged  resolution  of  the  blockhead  with  whom  he  travelled, 
the  old  Palatine  made  no  further  eti'ort  to  carry  his  own 
wishes  into  eft'ect,  but  sutiereil  their  pursue:^  to  approach. 

"  They're  at  the  top  o'  tlie  hill  akeady !     1  heai"  the 
•  Devil's  Cras. 


390  8UIL  DHUV, 

tramping  0*  the  horse's  feet — Whisht!  Dash  along!  Naught 
was  never  in  danger.  Take  care  how  you  fall.  Never 
wtlcome  the  thunder  ;  will  it  never  have  done  bellowing, 
and  let  ns  hear  the  people  ?" 

"  Hulloo-ee — hoo — hoo-ee  !" 

"  Hoo — hoo-ee  !  here,  lad  I  Halt  !  ho  1  Will  you  never 
stop — ha!  the  fair  sex — P'oiigafoil!     Where  are  you — ?" 

The  query  was  cut  short  by  the  sudden  onset  of  a  lai-ge, 
stout-limbed  horse,  which  dashed  fuiiously  thioiigh  the 
group,  covering  the  dandy  grazier  and  his  prisoner  \^ith  a 
prof  ision  of  the  puddle,  struck  by  the  concussion  of  the 
animal's  bioad  hoofs  from  the  weltering  ruts  of  the  old  and 
broken  road.  As  they  swept  thus  fiercely  through  the 
group,  the  horse  chafing,  snorting,  and  furiously  contending 
agninst  the  restraint  of  the  tightened  rein,  the  rider  by 
voice  and  action  using  every  possible  endeavour  to  restrain 
him,  the  gentleman  of  the  wig  and  sword  execrating  both 
in  the  purest  Gaelic,  and  the  poor  discomfited  Sliiaa 
patiently  morning  within  his  compressed  lips  at  this  new 
misfortune  ;  while  these  relative  sounds,  we  say,  proceeded, 
a  sudden  rent  was  made  in  the  c'oud  immediately  above 
them,  and  a  volume  of  electric  light  was  poured  upon  the 
spot,  so  intrnse  and  brilliant,  as  for  a  few  seconds  to  enable 
each  individual  of  the  party  to  peruse  in  minute  detail 
every  portion  of  the  person  and  accoutrements  of  tlie  rest. 
For  those  few  seconds,  the  Palatine,  whose  eye  was  fixed 
in  all  the  keenness  of  an  acute  curiosity  upon  the  new 
comers,  was  enabled  to  discern  the  figure  of  a  young  man, 
keeping  a  firm  seat  on  the  wild  steed,  which  it  seemed  to 
require  an  exertion  ahnost  as  much  of  strength  as  of  skill  to 
go\ern,  and  end(  avouring  at  the  same  time  to  uphold  from 
the  earth  the  crouching  form  of  a  female  \\ho  sat  before 
liini,  whose  low,  hunied,  and  agitated  moans,  mingling  in 
the  pause  of  the  thunder  ])eal,  produced  a  Strang*!  admix- 
ture of  iavoluutary  pity  and  terror  on  the  mind  of  the 
hearer. 


THE  COIN'EU.  891 

**  Mnrthcr,  mnrther  alive!  only  see  wnere  he  has  the 
female  !"  ejaculated  the  Cork  gcntl-cmaii. 

" ' Tis  he  !  'tis  they !  Join  them  and  hasten,  sir,  fo( 
Heaven's  sake,"  said  the  woman,  clinging  to  her  protector, 
and  gathering  her  turned-up  wrapper  ho  ,id-wise  about  hir 
face  for  the  purpose,  as  it  seemed,  of  keeping  off  the  heavy 
rain  which  poured  in  torrents  upon  her,  and  shading  its 
features  at  the  same  time  from  the  strong  light. 

"  A  bad  night,  gentlemen,''  said  the  young  man,  wishing 
to  assure  himself  of  the  identity  of  those  whom  he  addressed. 
"  U  you'd  tell  us  news,  we'd  thank  you,"  returned  the 
huclc.  "And  pray  what  was  your  business  with  us,  or  who 
are  you  at  all  ?  We  have  the  right  of  challengers,  by  all 
tlie  rules  of  riglit  tactics.  Witness  the  catechuuieu's  pro- 
verb— 

'  Who  goes  there  ?" 

'  A  grenadier !' 
*WUat  do  you  want?* 

'A  bottle  o'  beer !' 
*'\Vlieres  ymir  muney?' 

'  In  my  pocket.' 
•Where's  your  pocket?* 
'  I  forgot  it.' 

Answer  speedily,  sir,  lest  you  become  liable  to  the  appli- 
cation of  the  catechist's  concluding  octo-syllabic— 

'  Gid-a-gone,  you  foolish  blockhead  !' " 

"You  are  the  merriest  man  in  a  thunder-storm  I  ever 
gaw,"  said  the  new-comer;  "but  I  think  if  you  are  dis- 
posed to  proceed,  we  may  as  well  dash  forward.  Your 
merriment  will  do  little  to  wring  the  drenching  rain  from 
my  poor  feilow-tr.iveller's  slight  dress — " 

"0 — hu-h !  hush!"  whis,)erLd  the  woman,  "do  not 
speak  of  nie.  I  feel  nothing.  I  am  used  to  tliis.  But, 
for  Heaven's  sake,  spur  on  your  horse.     They  vill  follow." 

*'I  don't  know  what  may  be  the  custouis  of  tlie  ladiea 


392  SUIL  DIIDV, 

of  Limei'ick,"  placidly  coiit'miiecl  the  hiich^  *'  hut  in  the 
County  Cork  it  would  be  considered  an  instance  of  question- 
able taste  to  select  such  an  evening  as  this  for  an  excursion. 
Here,  sir,"  tossing  his  loody  to  the  young  man,  "  the  choice 
is  between  a  female  ar.d  my  new  wig,  and  as  I'm  an  Irish- 
man, I'd  rather  have  it  hanging  as  lank  as  a  cow's  tail 
down  my  back  in  the  morning,  than  that  one  curl  of  the 
humblest  creature  that  ever  wore  bonnet  should  receive  a 
section  from  a  single  drop  of  such  a  torrent  as  this." 

"The  buckeeny  has  a  spark o'  the  gentleman  in  him,  for 
all!''  observed  +.he  taciturn  x\bie  Switzer,  (the  first  remark, 
by  the  way,  foi  which  we  have  been  enabled  to  afford  him 
space  during  the  entire  day). 

"  Do  you  travel  on  the  Crag  Koad  ?"  inquired  the 
stranger,  after  he  had  wrapped  the  coat  about  his  suffering 
2)rotege€. 

"  As  far  as  Drumscanlon,  where  I  caT  make  as  many 
Melcome  as  the  Vouse  can  accommodate-— Ay,  and  more 
too,  for  poor  old  Byrne  ur-n't " 

'•  We  may  as  well,  I  think,  be  riding  for-vard  as  we  talk," 
said  old  Segur. 

"  If  we  stay  this  way,"  added  Abie,  "  there'll  one  of  us 
be  roasted  for  the  rest  for  supper." 

"  Whoever  that  poor  woman  is,  sir,"  continued  the  Pa- 
ia  ine,  "it  would  be  as  well  if  she  turned,  on  the  other  side, 
fi.r  the  wind  blow^s  on  thaty 

"  The  blessiugs  of  a  broken  heart  fall  on  you  !"  murmured 
thfc  warn  in,  as  her  protector  took  the  old  man's  hint. 

"Blajs  l.im,  does  she?  Why,  she  did  not  so  much  as 
sav  ■  thanky,  kindly,'  to  me  for  the  loan  o'  my  coat !"  mut- 
tcicd  the  grazier,  as  he  shrugged  up  his  shoulders,  and  felt 
tlie  rain  already  penetrating  his  green  broadcloth. 

The  whole  party  proceeded  as  rapidly  as  the  starting, 
reaving,  plunging,  and  shying  of  their  steeds  would  permit. 
Th2  lightning  flashes,  which  still  continued  momently 
gli'.aciug  in  va'ious  degrees  of  brilliancy  upon  their  path, 


TUfi  COINER.  393 

forming  a  very  sufficient  apology  for  the  contumacy  of  the 
animals. 

"  I  was  saying,"  said  the  Cork  gentleman,  "  that  poor 
Byrne  usn't  to  limit  his  invitations  to  the  dimensions  of  his 
house.  Many  and  many  a  night;  you  don't  hear  me,  sir?" 
he  continued,  pressing  close  to  the  young  man,  "  many  a 
pleasant  r.ight,  after  tiring  down  every  girl  ia  the  hall  at  a 
slip-jig,  I've  stretched  myself  abroad  in  the  hay-Lift  as 
comfortable  as  could  be,  and  the  Blanej'S  of  the  Hill  in  the 
cow-house  under  me,  Avith  such  joking  and  laugliing. 
The  fowl-house  was  a  great  place  for  us  too,  I  remember. 
Old  Missiz  Hasset  (that  was  hardly  young  Mrs.  Hasset 
then) — and  by  tlie  way,  talking  of  her,  she's  at  Driimscan- 
lon  to-night,  moreover,  or  ought  to  be — used  to  have  the 
ticks  and  quilts  bro-ught  out  o'  the  cars,  and  made  up  snug 
and  cozv  among  the  turkeys,  and  the  rest  o'  them,  for  the 
neighbours  ;  and  sometimes  we'd  have  littltj  Ldly  herself — 
Hirrui's,  sir!  keep  your  horse  ste.idy,  if  you  please  ! — we'd 
have  little  Lilly  Byi-ne  her.-elf,  a  fine  little  curly-headed 
rogue,  little  merry-eyes,  as  I  used  to  call  her,  coming  out  o' 
the  d<Jor,  and  1  nigaing.  Poor  Lilly !  I  recollect  saying  to  her, 
one  day,  while  I  was  tos-ing  lier  on  my  toe,  and  she  l.uigh* 
ing,  and  crowing,  and  her  hair  flying  about  hrr,  and  her 
cheeks  as  rosy  as  a  rose  itstlf.  I  remember  s.\ying  to  her, 
says  I,  'the  day  will  come  yet,  when  a  lock  o'  that  hair 
wUl  b3  a  prouder  gift  for  a  young  man  to  wear,  thim  a  coat 
of  Buckmaster*  ;  the  day  will  come,'  says  1,  and  T  looking 
at  her  this  way,  in  the  face,  '  the  day  will  come  when  that 
eye  will  m;ike  many  a  gallant  heart  ache,  and  many  a  young 
man's  che:k  giow  pale,'  says  I,  and  I  looking  at  her,  think- 
ing of  it — '  and  when  that  lip  that's  there,  so  innocent,  will 
have  the  word  of  life  or  death  upon  it — isn't  that  great  ?' 
— and  she  laughing,  not  understanding  a  word  o'  what  I 
said,  and  sure  'twas  all  true  for  me." 

*  The  reader  may,  if  he  pleases,  imagine  an  ancestor  of  the  pre- 
sent respectable  faikiouist  in  liuml- street. 
17* 


394  SUIL  DHUV, 

The  grazier  did  not  know  what  a  sincere  and  agonized 
assent  Ills  uords  received  in  the  heart  of  the  poor  young 
man  who  rode  by  his  side. 

"  1  think,"  continued  the  talkative  bore,  who  wished, 
nideed  very  pardonably,  to  divert  his  attention  from  the 
now  perfectly  piteous  condition  to  which  he  felt  himself  re- 
duced, by  the  exercise  of  a  tonp;ue 

*  As  true  as  truest  horsp, 
Tliat  yet  would  never  tire.* 

"  I  think,"  said  he,  "  Lilly  will  ve'ify  my  pmphecy,  if 
she  has  not  done  it  yet.  Bat  poh  !  -what's  the  use  of  talk- 
ing ?  I  saw  her  when  I  came  this  way  tiie  other  day,  and 
'twould  puzzle  the  Danes  to  tell  what  was  coaie  over  her. 
Her  cheek,  sir — her  plump,  ripe  cheek — that  you  might 
play  a  hand  of  fives  against,  so  worn  down  and  pale-looking 
— and  her  little  hand  so  damp  and  cold  as  she  put  it  into 
mine  ;  and  such  a  deith-like,  religious  smile  about  iier  sweet 
lips  ;  and  then,  instciul  of  meeting  me  with  a  jump,  and 
a  hop,  and  a  laugh,  and  that  little  merry  '  hoop  !'  that  used 
to  come  from  between  her  lips,  as  sweet  as  love  itself,  sir, 
and  as  fine  as  a  gold  thread,  she  met  me  as  her  mother 
might  have  done — standing  upright  on  both  her  feet,  put- 
ting one  before  tlie  other  when  she  walked — and  having  no 
more  of  the  merry  hoyden  that  I  knew,  left  about  her,  but 
only  all  her  sweetness.  You'd  wonder  to  look  at  her.  I 
didn't  take  my  eyes  off  her  for  as  good  ami  better  than  an 
liour.  Her  eyts  were  a  little  red,  too.  'Twould  move  you, 
sir,  if  you  were  to  be  looking  at  her." 

"It  di;es  !  it  does!"  replied  his  companion,  in  a  tone  of 
deep  feeling. 

"  Sir,  I'm  sure  you're  a  gentleman,"  said  the  grazier 
warmly,  at  once  attributing  to  the  influence  of  his  own 
pathos  in  the  nai  ration,  all  the  effect  whi /h  the  circum- 
stances thenisel'.es  had  produced  upon  his  auditor '"I'm 

sm-e  you  are,  and  1  like  }  ou.     The  fact,  however,  may  be 


TUE  COIKEB.  095 

n.ituially  explained,  as  in  honest  triitli,  her  mother  dul  ric- 
connt  for  it  to  me,  in  a  confileiiti  il  way.  Tilkin^f  of  imu- 
fiilence,  by  the  bye,  I'll  not  tell  you  what  she  svid,  for  t  icso 
thing-,  however  tnflin:^  they  may  ap;)e  ir  t »  men  of  sense. 
are  not  likely  to  be  service  ible,  when  spoken  of  to  t'le  cl  is:» 
of  unmarried  g'rls.  And  after  all  it  is  but  a  girlis  i  f<i  icy, 
which  will  go  off  with  the  next  fine  weather.  In  the  arf -c- 
tions,  as  in  grazing,  tiie  autunn  d  produce  is  al-vays  the 
sweetest.  A  girl's  first  love  is  too  sudden,  too  luxuriant, 
sir — it  is  parched  and  dried  up  in  its  own  fire — there's  no 
health  about  it — but  maw  that  away  with  a  few  months' 
absence — let  the  heart  be  trampled  a  little — let  the  soft 
showers  of  disapp  jintment  fall  upon  it — and  then  you  have 
it  as  fresh,  and  kind,  and  gentle  as  a  field  of  upland  clover." 

"  A  thorough  grazier's  sentiment,"  said  Kumba,  al.mist 
involuntarily,  within  his  own  heart.  *'  When  was  this, 
s^ii-?"  he  asked,  aloud. 

"  A  few  days  since,  I  was  at  Drumscanlon.  I  made 
Lilly  laugh  at  last,  reminding  her  of  the  time  when  I  used 
to  bring  her  the  bareen  brae*  and  tell  her  the  story  of  the 
wee-wee  woman  and  her  bunch  o'  black-berries.  By  the 
way,  they  were  expecting  the  priest  there  at  that  time  ;  for 
you  must  know,  Lilly  is  grown  so  pious,  that  they're  begin- 
ning to  think  she'll  make  a  fair  run  for  a  convent,  some  fine 
morning.  But  we'll  talk  more  o'  this  by  au  by.  We'll  be 
late  for  supper,  I'm  afraid. " 

The  party  quickened  their  pace. 


•  Spotted  cake.     Bread  made  with  fl«ur  and  raisins  mingled, 
is  one  of  the  fcdtire  delicacies  ol'  Christiaa^  times  ia  IreUad. 


L_ 


396  SUIL  DHUV, 


CHAPTER  TX. 

Confusion  now  hath  made  his  master- piece— 
^lost  sacrilegious  murder-  hath  broke  ope 
The  Lord's  anointed  temple,  and  stole  thence 
The  life  o'  the  building ! 

Shahespecav. 

Trere  is  a  proverb  current  among  the  Irish  peasantry, 
which,  as  we  liave  not  been  in  the  habit  of  obtruding  those 
aphorisms  of  vulg/ir  wisdom  upon  him  hitherto,  the  reader 
will  excuse  our  transcribing.  It  runs,  in  English,  some- 
thing in  this  way — "  Carry  a  goat  to  the  chapel,  and  ho 
never  will  stop  until  he  mounts  the  altar."  The  truth  of 
the  axiom  is  more  treq_riently  exemplified  in  the  annals  of 
Irish  crime,  than,  perhaps,  in  thoie  of  most  other  nat!(i?is. 
The  reason  of  this  may  be  found  in  the  simple  fact,  that 
Irish  crime,  like  Irish  virtue,  is  not  the  creature  of  the  ui.ud 
but  of  the  heart.  They  are  a  people  more  frequently  be- 
trayed into  guilt  by  the  impulses  of  strong  feeling,  thin  the 
cold  suggestions  of  convenience ;  and  in  proportion  to  the 
violence  of  the  stimulus  applied,  will  be  four.-d  the  depth 
and  atrocity  of  the  outrage  that  is  committed.  F'or  the 
same  reason  also,  it  appears  that  instances  of  acold-hearteil 
attachment  to  guilt,  having  no  more  immediate  motive  than 
habitude,  are,  proportiona'ily  to  the  extent  of  crime  ex- 
isting, very  rare.  The  rullian  who  has  been  lashed,  throug'i 
Ins  course  of  blood  and  outrage,  by  the  hand  of  circum- 
stance, is  liible,  when  the  scourge  is  withdrawn,  and  a 
pause  is  left  him  for  reflection,  to  sudden  accesses  of  self- 
detestation  and  remorse,  which  would  seldom  be  experienced 
by  one  whose  guilt  was  determined  before  it  vvas  acted,  and 
whose  career  had  been  the  election,  in  any  degree,  of  deli- 
berate reason.  By  following  in  tl;e  steps  of  the  unhappy 
wretch,  whose  alias  has  furnished  uswiih  a  name  fur  thi.s 
tale,  through  the  following  pages,  the  reader  may  find  aii 


—    1 


THE  COINER.  397 

illustration  of  both  the  idiosyncrasies  we  have  attempted  to 
account  for,  the  capability  of  utter  abandonment  of  all 
moral  principle,  and  liability  to  a  sudden  change  of  feeling 
ia  the  very  liead  and  front  of  the  criminal's  ofl'endiiig : — a 
hue  of  national  character,  which  is  only  wanting  in  wretches 
so  completely  regenerated  in  depravity,  as  the  white-haired 
murderer  — Red  Rody. 

We  should  also  have  called  the  reader's  attention  to  the 
fact  which  is  perfectly  observable  at  the  present  day,  as  we 
may  suppose  it  to  have  been  at  the  period  of  wliich  we 
write — that  when  those  Irishmen,  who  live  by  a  misappro- 
priation of  the  goods  of  others,  meet  together  for  the  pur- 
pose of  agitating  an  excursion  in  the  way  of  their  vocation, 
they  do  not  confine  themselves  to  a  soii.ary  outrage,  but 
calculate  upon  etfectingall  that  maybe  accomplished  within 
the  period  tu  .vhich  they  limit  their  absence ;  insomuch, 
that  robberic:^,  and  perhaps  murders,  sometimes  take  place 
on  the  same  night  at  places  so  remote  from  each  other,  that 
it  would  almost  appear  sufficient  to  prove  a  man's  identity  as 
a  partner  in  the  one,  to  enable  him  to  enter  an  alibi  on  the 
other  otfence. 

Suil  Dhuv  and  his  three  companions  had  more  to  accom- 
plish an  this  evening  than  the  reader  has  already  been  mad.; 
aware  of,  and  one,  the  first,  act  of  violence  which  they 
propoced  committing,  was  of  a  peculiar  and  more  startling 
nature  than  any  in  which  the  Coiner  had  yet  been  engagid. 

He  had  accorded  an  instant  and  even  eager  assent  when 
the  propositiun  was  first  made  by  one  of  the  gang,  Mun 
Mah.cr,  the  fellon'  whose  insolence  he  had  checked  by  so 
?urara?ry  a  procedure  in  the  held  of  the  gang.  He  had 
then,  however,  only  considered  the  advantage  which  was  to 
be  derived  from  it,  namely,  the  acquisiiion  of  a  sufficient 
(juantity  of  silver  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  on  their 
illegal  toil.  Upon  the  means  he  had  not  bestowed  a  single 
thought,  after  he  had  once  satisfied  himsell  of  their  practi- 
cability. 


TT^ 


398  SOIL  DHOV, 

As  he  rode,  however,  along  the  country  with  his  com- 
panions, a  new  train  of  circumstances  conspired  to  shake  liiin 
liom  the  indifference  in  wliich  he  had  furtified  his  spirit. 
The  veiy  agitation  of  the  contemplated  enterprise  in  which 
his  personal  wishes  were  chiefly  interested,  was  calculated 
to  prepare  the  way  in  his  breast  for  the  admission  of  a 
gentler  tone  of  feeling,  than  he  usually  carried  about  him  on 
uich  expeditions.  The  district  which  they  were  approach- 
ing, and  wiiich  speedily  began  to  spread  its  well-cultivated 
and  party-coloured  surface  before  their  eyes,  was  the  soil  in 
which  his  childhood  had  been  passed  ;  and  memories  of 
childhood  hours — whether  those  hours  have  been  spent  in 
darkness  or  light — in  showers  or  sunshine — are  the  truest 
key  that  can  be  found  to  diaw  forth  from  their  rugged 
prison  thj  yet  surviving  tendernesses  of  the  human  heart. 

As  they  wound  along  the  side  of  a  craggy  hill,  composed 
of  a  brittle,  culmy  soil,  Suil  Dhuv  dnw  up  his  horse,  as  if 
for  the  purpose  of  making  some  observations,  but  in  reality 
with  the  view  of  indulging  himself  in  a  musing  contempl.i- 
tion  of  the  quiet  evening  landscape,  which,  independently 
of  any  associations,  presented  a  picture  sufficiently  alluring 
to  account  for  the  action,  had  that  been  its  only  motive. 
Immediately  bjneath  them,  on  the  right,  and  extending  far 
into  the  distance,  lay  a  well-nurtured  and  fertile  champaign, 
rich  ia  all  the  glorious  hues  of  ripening  summer — the  dark 
green  potato-field — the  already  russet  meadow— the  golden 
i-ijpe — the  bearded  barley,  billowing  in  the  light  wind  and 
receiving  from  the  reddish  sunlight  a  variety  of  light  and 
shade,  such  as  that  Avhich  charmed  the  bright  ^yes  of  the 
Dublin  beauties,  when  first  the  master  of  the  chain  and 
^//i'u^  conjured  from  his  loom,  in  all  its  shatlowy  magniti- 
cence  and  cameleonlike  insecurity  of  hue,  the  now  forlorn 
and  neglected  i(i!6i«(?< — these,  together  with  the  glitter  of 
cottage  windows  through  the  boweriug  and  close  mantled 
hedges  of  black  briar — periwinkle,  prittirosi-,  hawtliorn, 
and  led-blossomed  snuff-weed,   the  virgin  meadow-sweet, 


J 


THE  COINER.  393 

wild  Gtrawberries,  wild  heart's  ease,  and  dog-roses  ;  tho 
wreatbing  of  the  light  blue  smoke  through  the  humble 
chimney,  which  gave  an  involuntary  feeling  of  comfort  to 
the  spectator — the  flax  garden,  with  its  delicate  stems  and 
pale-bhie  flower — the  ridges  (drills  v,ere  then  unknown)  of 
early  white-eyes,  already  deligliting  the  eye  with  their  white, 
purp'e,  and  peach-coloured  blossoms — all  refre^hiiig  the 
orgiins  of  smell  with  a  sweetness  which  (but  perhaps,  that 
was  the  result  of  association) — we  have  vainly  sought  to 
mate  among  the  exotics  of  Kensington — these,  I  say,  pre- 
sented a  beautifully  variegated  and  gigantic  tablet,  over 
which  many  a  mountain  stream  unrolled  its  sparkling  scroll, 
intersecting  the  sujierfice  at  a  thousand  fantastic  angles. 

On  the  ether  side  lay  a  bog  on  which  many  groups  of 
peasantry  were  observed  at  work— -some ^ooiin^,  or  raising 
the  s  ds  of  turf  on  end,  for  the  purpose  of  drying  moro 
rapidly  ;  some  cutting  the  material  fresh  from  the  mass 
with  their  slanes*  others  shaping  sods  from  the  soft  pulpy 
soil  with  their  hands — others  again  tossing  the  dry  turf 
into  a  rail,  a  sort  of  vehicle  fastened  in  a  car  (or  cart), 
for  the  purpose  of  having  it  conveyed  home,  and  built  up 
into  a  snug  reek  as  a  provision  against  the  winter — while 
the  driver  stood  near  the  horse's  head,  lazily  looking  on, 
liis  cord-whip  tied  sashwise  across  his  shoulder,  and  whist- 
ling the  keen-the-cawn,  in  aloud,  full,  and  melodious  tone, 
to  the  drooping  and  weary  animal,  who  expressed  his  plea- 
sure at  the  attention,  by  a  gentle  oscillating  motion  of  th'3 
ears,  as  he  mused  over  a  handful  of  soilf  plucked  from  tlie 
near.  St  hedge,  a  kindness  which  in  all  probability  he  ap- 
preciaied  still  more  hijihly  than  the  music. 

The  0  casional  shiill  .'•cream  of  a  nesting  snipe,  startled 
frcwn  its  rushy  hiding-place  by  the  too  near  approach  of 
some  hostile  Ibotstf  p — the  merry  barking  of  the  curs  of  tho 
bamiet,  as  they  gambolled,  in  feigning  warfare,  in  the  sun- 

'    A  kind  of  spade  made  for  the  purpose. 
^  A  kind  of  long  grass. 


400  SUIL  J>HUTj 

si'.ine — t'ne  "  thriip,  thnip!"  of  the  milk-mnid,  as  wifh 
fvancel  and  can  in  hand,  she  summoned  t''e  cows  from 
their  distant  pasture,  to  deposit  their  evening  tribute  at  the 
farmer's  door — the  kindly  lowing  of  the  docile  anhnals,  as 
they  turned  from  their  fodder,  and  with  matronly  and  gentle 
pace,  obeyed  the  well-known  voice  of  the  summouer — the 
occasional  snatch  of  a  \^ild  and  merry  ballad  from  some 
pleasantly  disposed  individual  of  the  laborious  group  in  the 
bog — the  loud  though  distant  peal  of  laughter  that  cheered 
him  in  his  exertions — the  shrill  and  sohtary  cackling  of 
some  forlorn  goose,  that  had  lagged,  like  a  nitching  urchin, 
behind  the  flock,  and  now  lost  sight  of  its  com])aniuns — 
the  droning  sound  of  tlte  little  boy's  reeds  cut  from  the 
green  corn  stems,  and  slit  in  the  manner  of  a  flageolet — the 
plaintive  and  monotonous  cry  of  some  wren's-man  or  yellow- 
hammer,  that,  compelled  to  forsake  its  nest,  tainted  by  the 
touch  of  some  prying  school-boy,  mourned  its  desolation  on 
some  lofty  thorn — the  occasional  shrilly  shouting  of  a  gioup 
of  sturdy  boys  at  their  game  of  evening  goal  or  hurly — ihe 
sweet  and  murmuring  voices  of  the  peasant  girls  on  the  side 
of  the  distant  stream,  some  washing  the  skcogli  (or  boat- 
basket),  full  of  potatoes  fortheir  evening  meal,  and  sometimes 
in  a  merry  mood,  shaking  the  ci'usheen*  wiih  a  gesture  of 
menace  at  the  lads  on  the  other  side;  others  beetling  their 
linen  on  a  smoo.h  stone,  and  others  again  spreading  the 
ah'eady  whitened  garments  upon  the  yellow  and  blooming 
furze  bushes — those  formed  the  principal  points  of  sight  and 
of  sound  which  were  scattoied  over  the  face  of  the  landscai)e, 
while  the  whole  was  spanned  by  a  soft  blue  sky  chequered 
with  flakes  of  white  an  1  crimson  vapour,  and  rendered  still 
more  lovely  by  the  load'd  serenity  that  was  in  the  air. 

Touched  by  the  tender  beauty  of  the  scene  which  lay 
before  him,  and  still  more  by  the  reciillections  which  it 
awakened  within  his  suul,  Suil  Dhiiv  prolonged  his  pause  to 

"  A  short  stick  with  a  flat  piece  of  timber  at  the  end,  ussd  in 
washing  potatoes. 


THE  C0IN2R.  401 

a  degree  which  at  length  excited  the  impatience  of  his  com- 
panions. 

"  They're  not  boginncn  to  light  up  the  fires  yit,"  said  one. 

"What  fires?"  inquired  Man  Maher. 

"  Wliy,  the  fires  upon  tlie  mountains  and  places,  in  re- 
gard of  St.  John's  Eve.  Sure  this  is  the  tHinty-tiiirJ — 
the  Eha-na-Shawn.  'Twill  be  a  bad  evenen  for  it,  I'm 
afeerd.  Do  you  see  the  swallows  how  low  the)  'i-e  skiir.mcn? 
and — -jioch-e-Uiin  ! — look  there,  the  dog  eating  the  grass." 

"  Coaie,  sir  ! — Suil  Dhuv  !  Don't  yuu  hear  uz  ?  'Twill 
be  late  with  us,  I'm  thinken,  sir.  The  chapel  is  in  the 
glyn  over,  a  good  start  from  uz  yit." 

"  Have  you  the  wrench  and  hammer  ?"  inquired  their 
leader,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Safe  enough,  I'll  be  bail — Look  at  them  I" 

"  It  is  a  f.iir  evening  for  so  foul  a  deed  !"  thought  Suil 
Dhuv,  but  he  only  thought  it,  fur  he  was  too  well  anare  of 
the  temper  of  his  men  to  hazard  anything  like  an  indication 
of  di^taste  fur  the  enterprise  th'.'y  were  engaged  upon. 

'"  There  is  no  use  in  tiring  all  the  horses,"  he  said,  as  they 
descended  the  hill,  and  appro  iched  a  cross  road.  "  AIuu,  you 
and  I  will  do  this  first  business  together,  and,  my  lads,  ye 
may  as  well  stop  here  for  us,  or  ride  round  the  road  and 
meet  us  at  the  1:1111  o'  Drumscanlon." 

Both  the  men  touched  their  hats  in  token  of  assent. 

"  And  there's  no  fear,  sir,  of  the  travellers'  getten  the 
start  of  uz  ?" 

"  Make  yourself  easy  on  that  head — I  drew  the  charges 
myself,  and  saw  Maney  filing  the  clenching  of  the  hoof-nails 
with  my  own  eyes." 

"0  if  that's  the  case,  we  may  count  it  done — Maney's 
was  the  sure  finger  if  he  touched  them.  I  see  him  at  work 
at  'em  meself  the  other  day,  an'  he  grinnen  like  a  horse  aten 
thistles — the  day  of  the  blind  man,  you  know,  sir,  in  the 
glyu  below." 

i^uil  Dhuv  started  and  turned  pale.     Tae  recoilectiou  of 


40=? 


SUIL  DUUV, 


ilie  act  to  which  the  man  alluded  had  often  before  no-^ 
occurred  to  hun,  but  never  in  a  similar  state  of  feeling.  He 
put  spurs  to  bis  horse,  and  rode  ou  with  Mun  Maher,  the 
iast  speaker  and  his  companion  remaining  on  the  sjjot,  and 
looking  after  them  with  some  surprise. 

"  He's  afraid  he'll  be  late  at  the  chapel,"  said  one  to  the 
other — "  but  let  us  ride  round,  fair  an  aisy,  as  he  says,  and, 
stay,  we  have  time  enough,  we'll  just  step  into  the  shebeen 
house  over,"  pointing  to  a  little  wretched  cabin,  in  the  ex- 
terior of  which  no  further  indication  could  be  discovered  of 
its  claims  to  the  consideration  of  a  caravansery,  than  the 
broken  bottle  which  was  stuck  in  the  thatch,  and  a  litile 
piece  of  turf  wrapped  in  a  brown  paper,  and  dangling  from 
one  of  the  scollojjs*  over  the  low  doorvviiy.  "  Tuere'll  no- 
body see  uz  there,  an  I'm  so  dhry  I  could  drink  fester  thiu 
a  lime-burner's  bag." 

When  once  a  certain  train  of  feeling  has  been  laid  in  the 
soul,  it  is  ex'.raordiniry  to  observe  what  a  slight  acccsion 
of  circunistau3es  are  required  to  stimulate  and  strengthen 
it  until  it  has  acquired  a  mastery  over  the  judgment  and  the 
will  itstir.  Every  n;;w  sight,  every  now  sound,  that  ar- 
rested the  s  'use  of  the  Coiner  as  he  pursued  his  route  with 
his  co.np.mion,  served  to  confirm  him  in  the  disposition  to 
mournful  retrospection  which  the  simple  accident  of  a  fine 
suiiny  evening,  and  the  revisiting  a  soil  untrod  by  him  for 
many  a  year,  had  occ'.sio*ied  within  his  heart.  Tiie  corn- 
fiekis,  yet  in  ear,  where  he  had  been  stationed,  while  yet  a 
child,  to  terrify,  by  the  clattering  of  two  flat  stunes,  tins 
dark-plumed  plunderers  of  the  neighbouring  rookery  fr.»m 
his  patron's  tillage — the  very  meadows  in  which  he  had 
assi^^ted  at  harvest  time  in  filling  the  load  of  sweet  hay  i  n 
the  car,  for  the  purpose  of  stacking  in  the  Aayyari  -ilie 
paddock  to  which  he  had  been  dispatched  on  many  -.■n  .ve- 
ni;ig  as  fine  as  this,  with  an  armt  :1  of  i^rass  for  the  \\  e  ming 
lambs,    and   a  pot  of  milk   and   luiy- water   tor   tae  jouiig 

*  Or,  "sijueeze-loups,''  little  osier  tvi;^s  used  in  bliuliiig  llie  tLntib, 


l>: 


THE    COINER.  403 

cnlves — the  very  sally-grove  where  he  was  accustomed  to 
walk  and  chat  with  her  whom  he  had  lured  from  her  fa- 
ther's door  (a  door  that  had  opened  so  hospitably  to  him 
in  his  necessities) — and  whom  h§  was  now  prepariiis;  to 
desert — all  these  objects  acted  like  fire  upon  the  remorse 
thht  wrts  already  beginning  to  fester  within  the  bosom  of 
the  guilty  wanderer. 

A  crooked  and  (still)  broken-up  avenue  leading  to  a 
farm  house  near  the  road  side,  was  the  next  object  tliat 
caught  his  eyes — and  he  again  involuntarily  slackened  his 
pace,  for  the  purpose  of  gazing  upon  the  dwelling.  The 
place  was  as  familiar  to  him  as  his  own  home  would  have 
been — indeed,  it  was  a  house  in  which  a  very  considerable 
number  of  the  years  of  his  unsettled  boyiiood  had  been 
s])ent;  Init  it  was  sadly  changed  in  ap]iearance  fiom  what 
it  liad  been  when  he  first  beheld  it  in  his  young  days.  It 
was  then  a  sweet  cottage — embowered  in  foliage  and  frag- 
ranc — with  all  the  indications  of  rural  comfort  and  content 
about  it.  It  had  now  a  desolate  and  uninhabited  air.  The 
neat  jilot  before  the  door  was  half  conveited  into  ti!I;:^v, 
and  the  remainder  disfigured  and  turned  up  bv  thr  sinuit- 
ing  burghesses  of  the  adjacent  piggery.  A  muddv  pool 
had  settled  under  the  front  windows,  in  which  a  few  meac^re- 
looking  ducks  were  dabljling  and  diving  in  silence.  'J'lie 
he<lge  which  encompassed  the  jilot  was  broken  and  torn  up, 
and  at  one  spot,  had  completely  given  way,  blocking  up 
almost  half  the  avenue  with  its  ruins.  'J'he  elder-tree,  be- 
neath which  he  had  constructed  a  summer-seat  vvhicli  he 
often  shared  with  tlie  pretty  daughter  of  his  host,  was  now 
reduced  to  a  stum|).  The  house  itself  was  stript  of  its 
decent  garment  of  rough-casting — the  thatch  beaten  in  at 
several  places — and  the  chimneys  dismantled  :  these  em- 
blems of  decay,  together  with  the  silence  that  reigned 
over  the  place,  struck  new  feelings  of  melancholy  inty 
the  young  man's  spirit. 


404  SUIL    DHUY, 

"All  wns  still 
But  tho  lattice  that  flapped  when  the  wind  was  shrill ; 
Though  raves  the  gust  and  floods  the  rain, 
No  hand  shall  close  its  clasp  again." 

♦ 

A  single  poplar  which  stood  erect  in  its  graceful  slender- 
ness  of  form  in  the  centre  of  the  little  plain,  like  a  gnomun 
on  a  dial  plate,  flung  its  lengthened  shadow  in  a  direct  line 
toward  the  front  door.  The  Coiner  started  unconsciously 
as  he  observed  it,  for  that  was  the  indication  of  the  ex[iii')' 
of  the  sixth  hour  in  the  afternoon.  Breathing  a  short, 
quick  sigh,  he  checked  the  reins  of  his  steed,  which  was 
making  advantage  of  the  meditative  disposition  of  its  rider, 
to  crop  a  mouthful  of  herbage  from  the  hedge  over  which 
he  was  gazing,  and  hurried  forward  with  a  spirit  still  more 
disabled  than  it  had  been  before  his  ai-rival  at  this  sjuA, 
for  the  dreadful  tas-k  to  which  he  had  endeavoured  to  beiid 
up  the  energies  of  his  nature. 

lie  was  doomed,  nevertheless,  to  experience  still  fartli(^r 
and  more  heart-shaking  disquietudes.  As  he  approached 
the  spot  which  was  destined  to  be  the  scene  of  the  first  act 
of  the  guilty  drama  of  the  night,  his  attention  was  din dcd 
by  his  companion  to  a  little  fort  on  their  right,  which 
Mun  pointed  out  with  a  grim  smile  and  nod  of  the  head, 
as  much  as  to  say — "'Twas  a  good  job  that  was  done 
there,  sir."  The  situation  of  the  spot  was  such  as  might, 
without  ferther  explanation  from  the  speaker,  have  inti- 
mated the  nature  of  that  "good"  deed.  As  8uil  Dhuv 
raised  his  head  in  obedience  to  the  light  tap  of  his  CdUi- 
j)anion's  whip,  and  looked  around  him  for  the  first  time 
since  he  had  left  the  cottage,  he  was  chilled  and  startled 
by  the  sudden  alteration,  which  apiieared  to  have  taken 
])lace  in  tlie  face  of  the  country,  and  the  stern  and  sullen 
contrast  which  the  scene  he  now  beheld  presented  to  that 
on  which  his  fancy  and  his  memory  had  been  luxuriating  a 
short  time  before,  'ihe  verdure,  the  beauty,  the  sights  of 
promise  and  of  plenty,  and  the  sounds  of  miith  and  light- 


TIIE  COINER.  405 

heartedness,  had  vanished  as  completely  as  if  the  wand  of 
a  malicious  wizard  had  been  laid  over  the  face  of  the  pic- 
ture. Before  the  traveller's,  at  a  few  perches  distant,  laj 
a  long,  deep,  stragghng  glyn,  *covered  with  heath, 
bramble,  short  hazel  bushes,  sloe  trees,  wild  crab,  and 
other  stunted  and  dark-looking  individuals  of  the  family  of 
nnderwood.  A  brown,  boggy  stream  crept,  then  bounded, 
now  rippled,  then  roared,  and  again  murmured  at  various 
points  of  its  winding  progress  through  the  sullen  cleft — 
its  dark  waters,  in  several  instances,  narrowing  and  chafing 
against  ihe  ledges  of  ciag,  into  a  snow  white  foam,  little 
masses  of  which  floated  down  the  black  stieam,  like  so- 
litary virtues  on  the  gloomy  river  of  a  bad  world's  his- 
tory. The  sun,  which  had  chequered  wiih  so  many  sweet 
varieties  of  light  and  shade,  the  landscape  he  had  left 
behind,  served  here  only  to  increase  the  dreary  dulness 
of  the  scene.  A  flat  boggy  plain  or  inch  (a  plot  of  level 
ground  lying  near  the  marge  of  a  rivulet) — covered  with 
a  long  tabid  grass,  which  is  indigenous  to  such  a  soil,  aad 
assumes  the  appearance  of  hay  already  dry,  while  it  is  yet 
in  the  act  of  veget  iting,  spread  its  dusky  tablet  on  their 
left,  at  the  fuot  of  a  rocky  eminence,  while  the  stream,  form- 
ing a  small  semicircle  around  it,  cut  it  sharply  away  from 
the  base  of  a  steep  and  bare  cliiF,  over  the  summit  of  which, 
adornod  with  a  coronal  of  the  red- berried  mountain  ash, 
the  heavy  sunlight  darted  its  sloping  rays,  which,  corrected 
as  they  were  by  the  mistiness  of  the  p'ace  to  a  still  more 
hazy  faintness,  threw  an  air  of  slight  and  softening  indis- 
tinctness over  the  rugged  outlines  of  the  scene.  Near  the 
base  of  this  cliff,  in  a  dark  angle  on  which  the  light  had  a 
still  more  limited  influence  than  on  the  more  exposed 
features  of  the  picture,  stood  a  thatched  chapel,  a  plain 
oblong  pile  with  a  small  iron  cross  fast.med  at  the  top  of  tiie 
gable,  into  which  the  door,  an  unpanneled  plane  of  timber, 
marked  with  the  same  sacred  symbol  in  red  paint,  was  made 
to  open      A  narrow  road,  winding  down  the  hill,  formed 


406  SCIL  DHCV, 

the  approach  to  this  humble  temple— and  a  straggi'ng  p  ith, 
presenting  a  sliort  cut  in  this  road,  frum  the  spot  where  the 
Cuiiier  stood,  ran  almost  under  their  horses'  feet.  This  was 
pointed  out  by  Maher,  who  dismounted,  and  flung  the  stir- 
rups over  tlie  lii^h  pummelled  saddle  of  his  horse,  as  he  ob- 
served it.  Suil  Dhuv  followed  his  example,  and  threw  the 
reins  of  his  steed  to  his  companion  : — 

"  Remain  here  until  I  rturn,"  said  he  ;  "  and  if  any  dan- 
ger should  a[)proach,  do  not  forget,  for  your  lif  ■,  to  give 
mo  the  token.     Wliere  are  the  tilings  ?" 

Mailer  handed  him  a  wrenching  iron,  a  bundle  of  picks, 
a  file,  and  s -lall  hauimer. 

"  Il's  a  droll*  thing  if  they  were  left  there,"  the  Coiner 
continued.     "  Wouldn't  tiiey  be  safer  in  his  own  ciiest  ?" 

"  Is  it  Father  O'Regau's  ?  No,  indeed — I  heard  Watty 
the  clerk  say  meself,  that  he  was  afeerd  of  'em  there,  in  re- 
gard o'  the  Dd'ons  that  he  denounced  from  the  ahhar  o' 
count  o'  their  iiightwalkeu.  There's  no  h.irm  in  thryen  at 
any  rate ;  and  besides,  tha  priest  puts  great  trust  in  the 
chapel  above  all  other  places — fjr  as  he  said  hims.'lf, 
thoug'.i  there's  a  power  o'  villyans  goen,  there's  feow  o'  them 
that  are  wauten  both  in  the /ear  and  love  o'  God  together." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  he  did  not  know  you  or  me,  Malier,"  said 
Suil  Diiuv,  striving  by  a  painful  exertion  to  laugh  away 
the  dark  remorse  that  made  the  perspiration  stand  and 
glisten  upon  his  brow.  "  Walk  the  horses  softly  here,  aud 
I'll  be  with  you  in  ten  minutes."  And  bounding  over  the 
Stile,  he  hurried  along  ihe  path  towards  the  roid. 

"That's  the  qu  irest  liugii  I  iiver  h.'erd  hiai  laugh  yit," 
said  Mun  Mahir,  in  soliloquy  as  lie  gazed  after  the  ruHi.ui: 
*'  I  wonder  now,  could  it  be  anythen  tiuit  would  be  coiiieu 
over  him,  aftlier  all  ?  Isn't  it  greatly  he  was  thiuken  all 
aioiig  the  road  ?"* 

Something,  most  assuredly,  was  "coming  over"  the 
vouug  man  in  question,  simie  (to  himself)  unaccountable 
•  Extraor  Hilary 


1h.£  COINER,  40? 

State  of  feeling,  a  distress,  an  alarm,  ar.  uneasiness,  w?:cft 
he  could  trace  to  no  poss'.blo  external  influence,  and  which 
went  ou  deepening  and  fastening  upon  his  spirit  in  propor< 
tion  to  the  violence  of  the  exertions  which  he  nade  to 
shake  it  off.  He  thouglit  of  his  past  crimes  with  pain  and 
deep  remorse  ;  but  it  was  not  of  that  healthy  kind  which 
induces  a  longing  after  the  peace  of  pe'.iit<'nce,  and  casts  a 
stumbling-block  in  the  Avay  of  a.  guilty  pir.pose. 

On  the  contrary,  the  deeper  and  the  fiercer  the  pangs 
were,  which  every  reviving  recollection  struck  ii;to  his 
heart,  the  moi-e  he  raged  and  chafed,  the  firmer  and  more 
daring  his  resolution  became;  and  even  while  his  limbs 
shuok  Avith  fear  at  thought  of  the  retribution  he  had 
already  eained,  he  burned  w  ith  the  eagerness  of  his  desire, 
to  cast  another  yet  heavier  debt  than  all  into  the  already 
fearful  account.  His  soul  might  be  supposed,  in  this  re- 
spect, in  a  state  of  disease  analogous  to  that  which  in- 
dnces  the  patient  who  is  suffering  under  the  affliction  of 
an  acute  nervous  attack,  to  fling  himself  on  the  fire,  dash 
his  head  against  the  wall,  or  use  any  other  violent  means 
of  counteracting,  by  a  different  though  still  more  terrible 
excitement,  the  anguish  of  that  which  is  already  preying 
upon  his  frame. 

As  he  passed  the  fort  which  had  been  pointed  out  to  him 
by  his  companion,  and  which  lay  close  to  the  path  he  was 
jiursuing,  he  started,  shivered  with  an  emotion  like  fear, 
and  then  stamped  his  foot  against  the  earth,  and  uttered  u 
furious  oath  against  his  own  Aveakness.  He  raised  his  liand 
over  his  eyes,  and  attempted  to  hurry  forward,  with  his 
face  turned  anotlier  way.  then  suddenly  stopping  short,  and 
mtditating  lor  a  moment,  he  set  his  teeth  hard,  and  said  : 
"It  was  an  ugly  deed  after  all.  The  old  dark  man  thai 
coiddn't  defend  himself,  nor  know  what  was  coming  upon 
him.  It  was  a  coward's  blow  that  drew  his  blood  "  This 
was  spoken  something  like  the  manner  of  qtjlf  coudemna 
tion  which  a  sportsmau  might  be  supposed  to  feel,  who  had 


408  sriL  DHU'', 

sluit  a  liare  sIcH'iiing'  in  its  form,  ''lie  was  ]<\u}.  to  me  too 
wilt  n  I  wanted  kindness  badly  enongli.  Bui,"  (fiercely) — 
"  what  Luit?  Lie  blotted  all  from  my  mind,  when  lie  took 
from  me  tlie  jnly  friend  I  had."  Tlien,  \\itb  a  sudden  and 
b  11  rried  self- recollection — "Eh?  what  am  I  doing  liere  ? 
Well,  to  be  sure,  see  ibis  !  and  tbe  sun  going  down  already, 
and  all  I  bave  to  do  before  I  meet  him.  Tbink  o'  tbat, 
wby  !"  And  once  more  assuming  an  appearance  of  steadi- 
ness and  settled  energy,  he  rushed  from  tbe  fort. 

lie  did  not  long,  however,  retain  possession  of  this  ac- 
cidental firmness.  As  he  placed  his  foot  on  the  little  sti.'e 
■which  connected  tbe  foot-path  wiib  the  hill  road,  an  old, 
jialsied,  white-headed  woman,  her  hair  gathered  uj^  in  a 
roll  under  her  decent  white  kerchief,  a  few  sods  of  turf  and 
faggots  in  her  check  apron,  and  a  string  of  large  born  beads 
in  her  hand,  met  him  at  the  other  side.  liaising  her  aged 
head  as  if  with  an  etlort,  and  expanding  her  sunken  eyes 
MS  they  fell  upon  bis  figure,  she  stopt  short,  and  broke  in 
upon  the  litany  she  bad  been  telling,  to  wish  tbe  stranger 
a  "  good  evenen, /afif//^/."  Strangely  moved  l)y  the  con- 
trast in  the  designs  aiid  occupations  of  both,  the  Coiner 
paused,  and  gazing  fixedly  on  the  old  woman,  returned  her 
greeting  with  a  degree  of  tenderness  in  bis  voice  that  ar- 
rested her  attention,  in  (ui'ii.  Perceiving  tbat  her  route 
lay  over  the  hedge,  which  was  no  slight  obstacle  i'or  old 
and  sapless  bones  like  lurs  to  surmount,  and  acting  uiuler 
the  intiuence  of  one  of  those  unaccountable  sensations  to 
which  bis  present  state  of  agitation  rendered  him  liable,  he 
stept  liack  for  tbe  pur[)ose  of  suftering  tbe  devotee  to  pass 
first  over  tbe  stile. 

"  Goen  to  pay  your  rounds  at  tbe  chapel,  over,  this 
evenen,  I'll  be  bound,  you  are,  now — a  lanna-ma-chree  ?" 
(child  of  my  heart) — she  said,  as  she  placed  her  withered 
and  bony  fingers  (from  which  tbe  rosary  still  depended)  on 
tbe  wall. 


THE    COINER.  409 

"  Going  to  the  cliapel,  indeed,  a-vaneestha,"*  replied 
tlie  Coiner,  smiling,  in  an  access  of  fresh  and  slinging  re- 
rcorse,  upon  her. 

"  E'  then,  may  all  that  j-ou  do  there  be  remembered  to 
you  at  the  day  o'  judgment,  in  the  last  o'  the  world,  an 
through  all  ettrnity,  for  uvur,  av  you'll  only  jest  gi'  me  the 
hand  till  I'll  get  over  this  place  it's  so  cross,  entirely,  my 
old  bones  will  be  broke  in  my  body  within." 

Without  paying  any  attention  to,  indeed  almost  without 
hearing,  certainly  without  considering,  her  kindly  meant 
benediction,  the  Coiner  raised  her  in  his  arms  with  as  much 
ease  as  he  would  have  done  a  child,  and  placed  her  gently 
on  the  soft  path  at  the  other  side  ;  after  which  he  contin- 
ued his  course,  along  the  road. 

"  Millia  buehus,f  thin !"  exclaimed  the  pious  old  creature, 
"and  the  Lord  keep  his  eve  upon  you  this  blessed  night, 
and  hear  the  prayers  of  his  holv  Saint  John,  upon  his  own 
eve,  that  you  may  ever  an'  always  continue  in  grace,  and 
as  well  inclined  as  vou  are  this  moment,  for  it  is  a  good 
sign  o'  you  to  help  the  poor  old  widow,  and  to  be  goen  to 
the  chapel  on  the  Eha-na-Sha\vn,  while  many  another  boy 
oulder  than  yourself  is  at  the  goal  ])layen,  or  in  the  publi- 
can's, this  way." 

So  much  for  appearances  ! 

The  act  of  gentleness  which  he  had  done,  once  more 
contributed  to  throw  Suil  Dhuv  upon  the  interrupted  mood 
of  retrospection  which  had  been  growing  upon  him  through- 
out the  evening.  The  little  green  spot,  also,  before  tlie 
chapel  brought  many  an  old  and  peaceful  remembrance  to 
jiis  mind.  He  recollected  the  many  summer  mornings 
when  the  bright  Sabbath  sun  beheld  him  hastening  down 
the  wild  path,  his  neatly  frilled  white  linen  shirt  lying 
gracefully  on  his  open  bosom  ;  a  small,  carefully  tendered 
"  Path  to  Paradise"  in  his  hand  ;    his  black  and  sh-ining 

♦  Old  Woman.  f  A  thousand  thanks. 

18 


410  5UIL  Dflirv-, 

curls  combed  into  a  beautiful  and  clo-elj  clusitcrcd  mass  ; 
his  shoe-,  a  luxury  only  allowed  him  on  occasions,  wheu  a 
special  decency  ot  appearance  was  dct^med  requisite,  glisJen- 
iug  in  the  sunshine  ;  a  little  bottle  thrust  into  his  sida 
pocket,  which  was  given  him  by  the  old  woman  nhc  had 
dressed  him  up,  tor  the  purjjose  of  having  it  replen'shcci 
from  the  can  of  holy  water  at  the  altar's  foot — in  this  Sun- 
day trim  he  had  often  hurried  over  this  very  ground,  his 
heart,  in  its  innocence  of  feeling,  trembling  wuh  anxiety 
lest  he  should  lose  the  benefit  of  the  Mass,  an  evil  which 
is  regarded  with  a  peculiar  fear,  in  iiish  humble  life,  even 
among  those  whose  principles,  uidiappily,  are  lax  enough 
in  many  other  respects. 

He  pau.-e  I,  to  gaze  upon  the  little  turfeu  seat  where  the 
pastor  of  the  rural  flock  was  accustomed  to  sit  in  the  sun- 
s'iiine,  to  talk  familiarly  uith  tlie  cottagers  on  their  domestic 
aliairs,  or  hear  tiie  C(jnfession  of  a  penitent.  He  recollected 
the  time  when  he  had  knelt  on  the  green  sod  by  tiie  side 
of  the  h'lly  man,  his  heart  sinking  within  him  with  tear,  as  he 
meditated  the  humiliating  disclosures  of  some  boyish  of- 
fence, an  infiaction  of  the  Sabbath,  or  a  word  spoken  in 
anger  to  some  playfe  low,  and  the  gentle  monitory  voice  of 
his  adviser  seemed  onee  more  to  luurniur  in  his  ear. 

His  thoughts  naturally  reverted  to  h !s  present  condition, 
and  he  almost  unconsciously  put  the  quisiion  to  his  owa 
heart,  lioiv  different  and  how  dark,  iu  the  conparisou, 
would  be  the  account  which  he  should  now  have  to  render 
to  the  same  minister  of  peace,  if  he  were  to  rise  from  the 
quiet  grave,  in  which  he  had  long  been  sleeping  the  sweet 
sleep  of  the  blameless,  and  resume  his  ancient  place  on  this 
humble  tribunal.  Tlie  last  fancy  startled  him.  As  a  cele- 
brated divine,*  with  that  insight  into  the  machinery  of  the 
human  heart  which  characterized  a  great  portion  of  his 
writmgs,  has  said,  that  long  habit  of  self-wilkid  contempt 

*  Jean  Baptiste  Massilloc 


THE  COINER.  41! 

for,  antl  ohstinate  resistance  to  the  trnr!".  orreiigion  Is  often 
apt  to  substitute  a  iriechanical  superstition  in  its  place  ;  so 
it  miglit  now  be  observed  of  fche  stained  and  hardened  soul 
tliat  stood,  with  the  purpose  of  the  last  of  human  offencea, 
bl:<ck,  daring,  deadly  sacrilege,  before  the  door  of  the 
temple,  that  the  fouler  and  fiercer  his  resolution  became,  the 
more  weak  and  nervous  was  his  frame,  and  the  more  fear- 
fully active  his  memory  and  his  imaginatif  n.  The  short, 
quick  breathings  of  the  wind  through  the  dry  thatch  made 
him  start  and  tremble,  while  sudden  forms,  of  he  knew  not 
what  or  whom,  seemed  to  flit  before  and  about  him,  through 
the  evening  g'oora.  Again  his  memory  conjured  up  new 
sig'its  and  sounds  of  terror  from  the  familiar  spot  on  which 
he  stood.  He  belield  the  buried  clergyman,  robed  in  the 
sacred  vestments  of  his  office,  lifiing  his  hands  above  his 
head,  and  pouring  forth,  as  he  had  once  done,  the  denuncia- 
tions of  the  fearftd  judgment  of  the  impenitent,  from  that 
awful  text,  the  woids  of  which  had  made  the  young  blood 
of  the  Coiner  curdle  in  its  channels,  when  he  had  first 
heard  them  uttered — "  I  go  my  way,  and  you  shall  seek  me, 
and  you  shall  not  find  me,  and  you  shall  die  in  your  sin!" 
The  recollection  of  this  occasion  completely  unhinged  tlie 
courtige  of  the  unhappy  Mretch.  He  trembled  violeiitly, 
flung  himself  unconsciously  on  his  knees — struck  his  brea;t 
rapidly  and  violently  with  ins  clenched  fist — muttered  a 
hurried  snatch  of  the  half- forgotten  rosary — and  yet,  by 
some  strange  influence,  amid  all  this  agitation  and  remorse, 
the  thought  of  desisting  from  the  crime,  Avhich  he  medi- 
tated at  that  very  moment,  scarcely  once  occurred  to  him. 
Vague  and  general  notions  of  an  amended  life,  not  in 
any  instance  assuming  tlie  vigour  or  sincerity  of  a  positive 
intention,  glanced  across  his  spirit  at  intervals,  while  lie 
busied  hunself  in  preparing  his  instruments,  and  examined 
the  door  and  windows  of  the  building.  The  very  security 
•which  s^eiued  to  attend  his  undertaking,  the  absence  of  all 
bamon  obstacle,  the  facility  which  the  loneliness  of  the 


412  SUIL  DIIUVj 

place  itself  presented  the  slight  resistance  ^^hich  the  door 
seemed  likely  to  oppose  to  his  enti'ance,  all  t'liinislieu  hiin 
with  matter  for  new  distrust  He  paused  before  the  build- 
ing with  that  feeling  of  faanul  suspicion  which  chills  the 
heart  of  the  bravest  coldier,  when  he  finds  a  position 
totally  silent  and  undefended  where  he  expected  to  meet 
with  an  opposition  worthy  of  its  importance. 

The  sullen  dash  of  the  waters  beiuud  him  began  to  bonr. 
upon  his  hearing,  like  the  sound  of  distant  thunder  He 
struck  f  ercely  at  the  lock  of  the  door,  then  started  and 
trtnibli  d  as  the  many  echoes  of  the  blow  came  back  upon 
him  from  the  rents  and  hollows  of  the  cliff  and  glyn,  and 
again  repeated  the  strokes  with  double  vehemence.  At 
lengih,  fiinging  the  hammer  away,  he  stept  a  few  paces 
back,  then  dashing  himself  furiously  against  it,  he  sent  it 
crashing  round  upon  its  hinges. 

We  dare  not  follow  the  sacrilegious  wretch  through  all 
the  detail  of  his  impieties  in  the  interior  of  the  building. 
The  whole  proceeding,  from  this  moment,  was  one  of  such 
absolute  delirium,  that  he  could  hardly  be  said  to  have 
acted  it  with  consciousness.  He  ru-hed  to  the  recess  ia 
which  the  object  of  his  search — the  silver  chalice  or  cibo- 
reum  was  kept,  forced  it  open,  flung  himself  ou  his  knees 
once  more,  clasped  his  hands,  prostrated  himself  on  the 
earth,  started  to  his  feet,  snatched  the  tacred  vessel,  dashed 
the  contents,  the  sight  of  which  almost  maddcni'd  him,  upon 
the  altar — and  fled  in  an  abandonment  of  utter  fear  along 
the  aisle,  panting  heavily,  crossing  himself,  and  stiiking 
his  breast,  and  muttering  prayers  and  curses  blended — 
while  his  sight  swam  and  wandered  wildly  over  the  place, 
his  ears  seemed  to  ring  with  the  din  of  mingled  thunders, 
hyu)ns  ami  laughter;  flakes  of  whitish  light  darted  with 
throbs  of  anguish  from  his  eyeballs  ;  the  air  about  him  grew 
hot  and  suffocating ;  the  darkening  vault  of  the  night 
seemed  to  press  with  a  horrid  weight  upoa  his  brain ; 
and   his    conscience!,   rising   like    a    biiried  giant,     from 


THE  COINER.  413 

beneath  the  raoiint.ain.s  of  crime  he  had  cast  upon  it,  re- 
vealtd,  and  ahii'ist  rea'ized  the  Pamlemonium  which  his 
slislited,  though  unforgotten  faith  had  pointed  out  to  him, 
with  ii  warning  finger  in  his  days  of  early  innocence. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Goolo.  Pray  you,  sir,  stand  up,  I  am  sure  you  are  not  Lancelot, 
my  1)1  y. 

Lancelot.  Pray  you,  let's  have  no  more  fooling  about  it,  but  give 
me  your  blessing:  I  am  Lancelot,  j'our  boy  that  was,  your  son  that 
is,  your  child  that  shall  be. — Shakespeare, 

The  same  red  sun  whicli  had  lighted  the  old  Palatine  and 
his  party  on  their  ro:\d  by  the  Comg-on-Dhiol,  beheld  the 
Coiner's  accomplice,  j\Iun  Maher,  pacing  impatiently  up 
and  down  the  road  near  the  fort,  the  sugan  collar*  of  his 
own,  and  the  bridle  of  his  leader's  horse,  both  resting  on 
his  arm,  while  he  busied  himself  in  keeping  peace  between 
the  animals,  a  question  having  arisen  as  to  the  right  of 
property  in  the  nutritious  succedaneum  M-hich  encircled  the 
head  of  Muu  JMaher's  charger,  and  which,  in  the  opinion  of 
the  bettor-appointed  steed,  was  capable  of  being  appropriated 
to  a  more  gratifying  purpose  than  that  of  a  mere  symbol 
of  subserviency. 

INIun  ]\Iaher  would  have  been  much  the  litter  person  (for 
the  purposes  of  the  gang)  to  have  sent  on  the  enterprise 
which  the  Suil  Dhuv  had  undertaken.  He  was  one  of  those 
hapiiy  characters  who  are  relieved  by  Nature  from  the  evil 
of  either  tliinking  or  feeling  deeply  on  any  subject,  a-id 
whuse  vice  or  virtue  is  the  result  altogether  of  accident  and 
habit ;  who  take  vvhatever  little  ideas  they  may  possess  alto- 
gether upon  trust,  and  live,  as  onef  of  the  most  independent 

*   A  rude  kind  of  bridle,  or  halter,  made  of  hay 
+  Locke. 


414  SUIL  DHUV, 

of  the  tribe  of  independent  thinkers  bitterly  expresses  it — 
"  upon  the  ahn's  basket — on  scraps  of  begged  opinions." 

Maher's  tone  of  mind  or  feeling,  in  consequence,  was 
always  formed  by  the  company  into  which  circumstances 
had  thrown  hira  last.  He  was  ferocious  after  he  had  con- 
versed for  an  hour  with  Red  Rody — spirited,  fiery,  and 
ambitious  while  in  the  presence  of  Suil  Dhuv — given  to 
crusheening*  when  he  and  Jerry  got  into  a  corner  together 
— and  he  never  left  the  room  where  Maney  O'Neil  sat, 
without  a  passion  for  roguery  and  low  clieating. 

Neither  was  this  <  ameleon-like  quality  of  imitation  con- 
fined to  the  moral  composition  of  the  man.  He  generally 
assumed,  with  the  tone  of  ndnd  imparted  by  those  into 
whose  society  he  was  thrown,  the  gesture,  the  voice,  and 
even  the  veiy  air  of  the  featui'es.  By  a  singular  flexibility 
of  countenance,  similar  to  that  which,  even  in  these  days 
of  th;'  Drama's  disgrace,  enables  a  Ma  hews  to  collect  around 
his  green  cloth  and  lamps,  a  lauglnng  circle  of  her  onc3- 
genL'rous  patrons  from  the  world  of  the  Exclusives  them- 
selves— by  such  a  capability  was  Muu  Maher  enabled,  even 
without  the  intention  or  consciousness  of  it,  to  ad.pt  his 
face  and  manner  entirely  to  those  of  his  companions — 
changing  occasionally  from  Jerry's  soft,  open  gaze,  to  the 
hard-knit  brow  and  fixed  stare  of  Suil  Dhuv — the  stuiiid, 
foolish  eye  of  Maney,  and  even,  occasion  dly,  to  adopt  the 
pahied  agitation  of  Rody  himself.  He  was  certain,  more- 
over, to  remain  in  the  coudiiion  of  mind  in  which  he  had 
been  last  placed,  until  some  new  archetyjie  was  presented 
to  him,  for  (like  the  bird  of  the  American  forest^;,  that  is 
sonL;less  in  itself,  yet  can  become  the  pupil  or  even  the  rival 
of  the  nighiingale),  he  might  be  said  to  have  no  positive 
or  original  existence  of  his  own,  but  to  present  at  all  times 
the  double  of  some  neighboiu'  or  acquaintance,  playing  the 
same  part  in  the  world  which  a  loser  plays  at  a  game  of 

•  Gossipping 


THE  COINER.  415 

forfeits,  who  is  coudemnecl  to  receive  and  retain  an  attitude 
from  each  of  the  company  in  turn. 

Tlie  SiUHc  fee-linii',  moreover,  which  would  render  such  a 
one  impatient  at  being  !eft  for  any  considerable  time  in  thcj 
same  position,  made  Mun  fret  and  chafe  at  a  great  I'ate 
whenever  he  was  loft  long  alone.  He  remained,  for  some 
time  after  Suil  Dhuv  left  him,  with  his  arms  folded  and  his 
eyes  tixed  musingly  through  his  gathered  brows  upon  the 
gi-onnd,  then  led  liis  horses  slowly  up  and  dovvn,  wondered 
at  the  long  delay  made  by  his  companion  (a  considerable 
time  before  ihe  latter  had  reached  his  destination),  and  at 
last,  taking  from  his  coat  pocket  a  bundle  of  smoke-stained, 
whited -brown  papers  stitched  together  iu  the  form  of  a  book, 
in  which  the  print,  composed  of  a  strange  jumble  of  t^pes 
of  all  shapes  and  sizes,  was  o>carcely  discernible  in  the  gloom 
(a  spscies  of  confusion  of  wiiich  our  London  readers  m;iy  be 
enabled  to  form  some  idea  by  walking  as  far  as  tiio  dead- 
wall  in  Oxford-street,  or  any  other  dead-wall  where  those 
elegant  specimens  of  typogmjthy  from  "  Pitt's  and  Son,  at 
tlie  Seven  Dials,"  flutter  on  their  pack-thread  in  the  dusty 
street  gale,  and  where,  with  reverence  be  it  spoken,  in  the 
friendless  hours  of  our  literary  noviciate  in  the  great  Babt  1, 
we  were  wont  to  charm  away  the  remembrance  of  many  a 
cold  re|)ul.-e  and  many  a  stinging  disappointment),  taking, 
we  repe;it  (craving  the  reader's  indulgence  for  our  long  pa- 
renthesis) taking  tuch  a  book  from  his  coat  i)Ocket,  and  turn- 
ing over  a  few  of  the  well- fingered  and  dog's-eared  pages, 
he  selected,  frum  a  number  of  ballads,  one  which  their  habits 
had  rendered  very  popular  among  the  gang,  and  which  he 
adapted  to  that  exquisitely  passionate  air  which  our  tuneful 
frllow-coun.'rxman.  ALore,  has  since  graced  with  no  less  ex- 
quisiiey  passionate  words.  The  reader,  however,  is  re- 
qne-ted  to  keep  those  out  of  ids  reC'llcciion  while  he  fo  lo^vs 
!Mun  tlwousli  Tiie  Lamentation  of  Ellen  Moijuarc^  or  the 
Ai!gh?r''s  deceit — 

"  Plioo  !   wh«ae  is  it  at  all  for  otie  scni:  ?  Eh  ? — No — ' 


L 


41 G  suiL  j)uuv, 

The  Ited-liaired  Mans  Wife — the  ColJeen  Rue — the • 

Hah  !  you  animal,  yoix — will  you  be  quiet,  tin  re — Is  it  to 
ait  me  horse's  collar  upon  her  you  mr.iie,  this  e\cmiig? 
You'ie  like  your  own  master,  you  tyrant,  war.ten  to  have 
uvnry  thing  to  yourself — John  M'Gouhleruk'a  trial  for 
the  Quaker's  daughter — and  that's  a  nioveii  song  too,  and 
a  dale  o'  tenderness  and  fine  English  iu  it.  How  is  this  it 
goes  ?-  -hum  ! 

'  jNIy  iiamp  is  John  M'Goulderick, 
I  never  will  deny— 
They  swore  I  was  a  Ribhonman 

Coiulemned  I  was  to  die — 
As  soon  as  my  dead  letter  came 
My  sorrows  did  renew — 
Sayen,  for  to  die 
1  do  deny — 
Brave  boys,  what  shall  I  do  i 

There's  a  hole  in  the  ballad — I'm  not  able  for  tnat  at  all, 
to-night. — You  Avou't  let  that  sugan  alone,  again  ?  Shecla- 
na-Guira — A'then,  joy  be  with  you  in  a  bottle  o'  moss, 
Mary,  ^\herevor  you  are  this  eveuen,  'twas  you  that  used 
to  turn  that  nate  : — 

'  I,  trembling,  approached  this  beauliful  dame — 
And  iu  great  confusion  I  aslted  her  name — 
Was  she  Flora  ? 
A  iirora  ? 
Or  great  Queen  Demira? 
Says  she,  1  am  neither — I'm  Sheela-na-Guira.' 

Well,  pass  to  the  next — that's  too  moven ;  it  puts  me  in 
mind  of  ould  times  and  things,  intircly — Oh,  here  it  is  at 
last — 'As  I  went — '  Yes — oy — that's  it — "(and  clearing 
his  voice  by  a  "hem"  which  made  the  neighbouring  valleys 
ring,  he  commenced  the  Lamentaiinn  in  a  truly  lamentable 
key,  dwelling  with  a  due  degree  of  tremulous  vehemence 
upon  the  semibreves,  and  prolonging  the  key-note  from  the 
ferocious,  ear-piercing  loudness  of  a  trumpet,  to  the  buzzing 
indistinctness  of  the  echo  of  an  echo's  crhoV 


THE  COINER.  417 

1. 
As  I  went  a  walken  one  mornen  in  June 
To  view  those  gay  fi  avers  whia  spreadsii  iti  bloom, 
I  spied  a  young  faymale  quite  handsome  and  fair, 
Slie  had  me  enamoured — young  Kllen  Magaare. 


She  far  exceeds  Phrebus — Luno,  the  moon-  — 
Her  breath  is  far  sweeter  than  roses  in  June — 
I  have  travelled  this  nation — I  vow  and  declare, 
But  I  never  could  aicniil  young  Ellen  Maguare 

III. 
At  length  I  stept  to  her,  and  this  I  did  say— 
Your  modest  appearance  has  led  me  astray^ 
Both  you  and  blind  Cupid  has  me  in  a  snare, 
I  hope  you'll  rilase  me  young  Ellen  Maguare. 

IV. 

With  this  modest  answer,  then,  she  told  her  mind 
'  If  I  could  rilase  you,  I'd  be  well  inclined — 
My  heart  is  entangled,  af  you're  in  a  snare — 
So  tliat  is  your  answer  from  Ellen  Maguare.' 

Gondoutha,  wisha !     And  he  murdered  her  after  all  the 
love — oy,  indeed — 

V. 

Kow  111  conclude  and  let  you  understand 
May  this  be  a  waruing  to  every  young  man . 

To  the  lapboard  of  Sligo  I  straight  must  repair 

And  die  for  the  murder  of  Ellen -" 

"  Maguare,"  he  would  have  said — or  sung — had  not  the 
quatrain  been  cut  short  in  a  manner  which  seemed  almost 
to  threaten  the  vocalist  with  a  fate  shnilar  to  that  of  the 
unhappy  heroine  of  his  m.onody.  This  was  neither  more 
n"r  less  than  a  well-aimed  blow,  which  took  him  on  the 
middle  of  the  crown  and  laid  him  sprawliijg,  book  and  all, 
upon  his  face  and  hands  in  the  very  centre  of  the  high  road. 

A  thousand  vague  su.-.picions  and  surmises  identitied  wi;h 
the  peculiar  superstitions  of  tlie  nigiit — the  power  of  the 
Rftcret  ministers  of  evil — the  dark  and  sudden  joooca —the 
IS* 


418  SUIL  DHUV, 

wanton  Sheevrie — the  sowlth  (bodiless  spirit),  or  the  dhina- 
viauha — {good  people)  as  mischievously  inclined,  uotwitli- 
stuuding  the  concilidtoiy  appellation  which  is  given  them, 
as  any  among  the  host  of  malicious  spirits  who  are  supposed 
to  make  holi(i«?/on  those  sacred  vigils — and  be  gifted  with 
a  power  almost  uulimited  over  all  who,  unprotected  by  the 
shield  of  a  secure  conscience,  are  found  wandering  at  sunset 
in  lonely  places — a  thousand  surmises  of  this  nature  flashed 
in  indistinct  and  hurrying  masses  upon  the  mind  of  the 
prostrate  Maher,  and,  for  a  time,  prevented  him  from  lilt- 
ing up  his  eyes,  as  he  would  very  speedily  have  done  under 
any  other  circuuistances,  to  ascertain  from  what  cause  or 
with  whom  the  aggression  originated.  His  doubts  on  this 
subject,  however,  were  solved  by  the  sound  of  a  shrill  voice, 
the  tones  of  which,  though  not  heard  during  the  lapse  of 
many  a  long  day  b 'fore,  were  most  familiar  to  his  ear: — 

"  MiUia  buehus — agus  millia  gloria  !  you  coiitrairy 
boy!  have  I  iound  you  at  last?  get  up  wit  you,  an  coom 
along  home  wit  me  this  minnit,  I  V\\  you,  agin!" 

j\Jun  raised  his  eyes  cautiously,  and  beheld,  standing 
above  him,  with  the  fragment  of  an  ashen  bougli  in  her  Liand, 
and  the  rosary  transferred  from  that  hand  to  h  r  neck,  the 
old  woman  to  whom  Sail  Dhuv  had  been  so  livil  wlien  he 
met  her  in  the  g'ya. 

"  Aih,  mother,  is  that  you  that's  there  ?" 

"  D'ye  hear  him  for  one  rogue  ?  'Tis  thin,  I  that's  there 
— get  up  an  coom  along  wit  me,  now.  Ah,  you  iaj,rareful 
rebel — you  that  I  rared  and  cared  for,  and  that  1  th  )ug!it 
would  be  spreaden  a  bed  in  heaven  for  yjur  old  mother,  yit 
— to  go  after  sech  coorses  as  them  !  Whose  hci'ses  are  them 
you're  houlden  ?" 

"My  own,  and  the  Suil  Dhuv." 

"The  Suil  Dhuv!"  the  old  woman  esclaimed,  dropping 
the  bough,  and  clasping  and  wreathing  her  bony  fingi-rs  in 
strong  terror.  "  Oh,  Man,  a  boughleiu  dhowu!  is  that  the 
company  you're  kccpen  now.  d.irlca  r" 


THK  co:n£R.  419 

"What  else  wo'ild  I  be  docn  ?" 

"  Stayen  at  hoiiie,  to  be  sure,  minden  the  onld  -Hidowed 
mother,  voii  thief  o' the  ^volki — look!  look  over  !  Dv)  }0i; 
see  tliat  fort  beyont,  -with  the  bh?ck  hjizels  stiirn  uj'oii  the 
edges  of  it  ?  and  do  you  know  Avhat  was  done  thire  ?  Eh — 
thcgmtle  Heaven  preserve  us,  maybe  'tistoone  o'  themselves 
I'd  be  talken,  this  way  !  Answer  me,  eroo,  wrr  you  one 
o'  them  that  did  that  deed,  in  that  place,  that  night  ?"  and 
the  old  woman  moved  back  from  him  with  some  distrust. 

"  Ax  me  no  questions,  mother,"  said  Mun,  enjoying, 
for  a  moment,  even  the  unenviable  kind  of  superioiiiy  which 
the  horrible  suspicion  of  his  worthy  parent  gave  him — and 
affecting  a  degi'ee  of  gloomy  and  mystical  importance — "  ax 
me  no  questions — an'  I'll  tell  you  no  stories.  Thireare 
some  people  in  the  world  that  are  obliged,  sometimes,  to  do 
things  that  other  people  arn't  to  know  any  then  about.  Do 
you  think,"  he  added,  bending  on  her  one  of  his  leader's 
dark  glances — "do  you  think  you  are  able  to  judge  thnt 
deed,  whether  it  was  good  or  bad  ?  did  you  ever  hear  tell 
of  the  bunch  of  loghero  ?'"  [rushes.] 

*'The  bunch  o'  loghero!  eroo — "  said  the  old  widow,  quite 
bewildered — 

"  Coom,  sit  down  a-near  me  here  on  the  ditcl  — an'  I'll 
tell  you  it  while  the  Suil  Dhuv  is  away.  Siedh  sJivs!* 
lere.  The  moryi!  of  it  is  that  you  arn't  to  say  anythen  is 
Wrong  whin  you  jedge  be  yourself,  and  can't  for  tiie  life  o' 
you  see  the  inward  meaning  o'  wliat's  dt  ne.    Listen  to  nir.f 

"  A  lioly  and  a  good  man,  but  too  much  troubled  with 
doubts,  P'ather  Dennis,  was  awoke  in  the  midd'e  of  a  dark 
December  night  by  a  great  noite  outside  his  window.  He 
got  up,  tb^-^w  open  the  shutters,  and  looking  out,  he  saw 

*  Sit  down. 

t  The  moral  ol  th?s  fable  b^ars  so  obvious  a  resemblance  to  that 
•A  Faniell's  Hermit,  that  it  doe.T  not  s«m  extravaj,'ant  to  supposi 
(the  poet's  acoiiaintance  ivith  faerj  lore  taken  into  cousideratjon) 
•Jiat  it  giiggosted  tiie  il<jiji;;n  of  thut  liue  perfonniiULfc. 


K: 


420  SUIL  DHUY, 

two  men,  one  of  them  strivinc;  to  kill  the  other  with  a  hat- 
chet, and  the  other  endeavouring  to  save  himself  as  well  as> 
he  conld.  Just  as  the  Priest  was  going  to  cry  ont  a  thou- 
sand murders,  he  heard  a  he  ivy  crash,  and  a  groan,  and 
then  a  great  fall,  and  then  there  was  a  silence,  so  he  knew 
all  was  over, 

"  lie  held  his  tongue,  and  waited  to  see  what  would  be- 
come of  the  murderer.  '  I  shall  now  know  to  a  certainty,' 
said  the  Priest,  '  whether  there  is  a  Providence  or  no.' 

"  Opposite  to  the  Priest's  house  was  a  sweet  cottage  ten  - 
anted  by  a  young  couple  who  had  been  married  only  a  few 
mouths,  and  were  the  admiration  of  the  whole  vil'age  for 
their  fondness.  To  this  house  he  saAv  the  murderei'  drag 
the  b.dy — he  laid  it  near  the  cottage  door,  and  placing  tl.e 
blojdy  hacchet  on  his  bre  ist,  he  went  his  ways. 

'' The  Priest  never  returned  to  his  led  that  nii^hf,  but 
stood  at  the  windoAv  waiting  for  daylight,  to  see  w-luxt  would 
become  of  the  murdered  and  the  niiirdirer.  '  If  there  be 
a  Providence,'  says  (he  Priest,  'the  murderer  suiely  shall 
not  be  suffered  to  escape.' 

"  Day  broke — there  was  very  little  light — scarce  fo  m:;c'i 
as  might  serve  to  guide  a  man  upon  his  road  ;  for  the  moon 
and  stars  had  gone  down,  and  it  was  long  — long  before 
sunrise.  He  saw  the  cottage  door  open — and  the  maii  of 
the  house — a  young,  hale,  handsome  man  came  out.  lie 
stumbled  over  the  dead  body,  and  fell ; — not  knowing  the 
cause,  'jie  was  greatly  surprised  on  rising,  to  find  himself 
dabbkd  with  blood.  He  startled  and  trembled  from  head 
to  foot — stocped  and  touched  the  corpse,  taking  the  hatchet 
in  his  hand,  and  af.er  making  certain  that  the  man  was 
dead  indeed,  he  ran  to\\ards  the  hii;h  iHjad,  scarcely  knowing 
what  he  was  about  to  do.  At  tiie  gale  he  was  met  and 
hailed  by  a  nei;ihbour. 

"'Ho!  you're  eaiiy  ri.-ing  this  morning,  sir,'  said  th  ■ 
stracge  raau — '  where  to,  now  ?" 


—    J 


THE    COINER.  421 

"  '  I'm  goinij — I  don't  know — 1  want  help — there's 
nnuder  has  been  done.' 

"'By  whom  ?  Not  by  you  I  hope — what  brings  the 
blood  upon  your  vest  and  face — and  what  business  have 
you  (Lord  save  us !)  witli  the  bloody  hatchet  in  your 
hands.  Show  me  the  body.  What?  at  your  own  door 
too  ?  In  the  name  of  the  great  Lord,  and  of  the  king  of 
the  land,  I  take  you  a  prisoner  for  this  deed.' 

" '  Surely,'  says  the  Priest,  '  if  there  be  a  Providence 
this  innocent  man  won't  suffer  for  the  deed  he  never  shared 
in.'  The  young  inan  was  sent  to  gaol,  and  the  priest  staid 
all  that  day  praying  in  his  own  room,  that  if  there  was  a 
Providence,  it  might  be  made  known  to  him  in  that  business. 

"  The  next  morning  he  was  roused  from  his  knees  by  a 
wild  shrieking  and  clapping  of  hands  in  the  street.  lie 
went  again  to  the  window,  and  he  saw  a  young  wom;m, 
fair  and  well  formed,  standing  on  the  roadside,  crying  bit- 
terly, wringing  her  hands,  and  now  and  then  looking,  lik;^ 
one  that  is  crazed,  along  the  road,  giving  a  loud  cry,  and 
clapping  her  hands,  and  shaking  her  hair  over  her  shoulders. 
Father  Dennis  looked  along  the  road  in  the  same  direction, 
and  he  saw  red  coats,  and  horses  prancing,  and  guns  anil 
swords  glittering,  and  a  crowd  of  people  pressing  round  a 
car,^  in  which,  after  the  whole  procession  came  a  little. 
nearer,  he  saw,  sitting,  very  pale — and  looking  now  and 
then  at  the  straw  that  covered  the  hangman  near  him — 
the  young  man  of  the  cottage — -his  neighbour.  Then  the 
Priest  started — and  determined,  before  matters  went  far- 
ther, to  put  an  end  to  the  matter,  by  telling  all  he  knew. 
He  got  np,  and  was  about  to  leave  his  room,  when  he 
was  struck  senseless  in  a  fit. 

When  he  came  to  himself,  he  saw  one  through  the 
curtain  of  the  bed  sitting  by  him,  and  watching  for  him 
to  wake.  Supposing  that  it  was  his  clerk,  he  asked  if  the 
execution  had  jiassed. 

*  C;irt. 


422  SUIL  DHUV, 

"  '  It  is  over,'  said  the  man  ;  '  I  saw  the  dead  man  with 
my  own  eyes.' 

"  *Then,'  said  the  Priest,  starting  up  in  the  bed.  'J  have 
cast  away  my  life  in  prayers  that  were  never  heird — for 
t}iere  is  no  Providence  /' 

"  '  Take  care  how  you  say  that  too  speedily,'  said  the 
man,  drawing  back  the  curtain,  and  looking  hiin  straight 
in  the  face.     It  was  the  murderer  himself. 

"  Father  Dennis  felt  his  heart  faint  away  within  him  ; 
but  he  could  not  speak,  neither  was  he  able  to  deny  the 
man,  when  he  walked  towards  the  door  and  bade  him  fol- 
low. He  got  up,  put  on  his  old  hat,  took  his  stick  and  his 
breviary  in  his  iiand,  and  away  with  him  into  the  fields, 
the  murderer  still  going  before,  and  now  and  then  beckon 
ing  him  on,  until  they  cam.;  to  a  lonely,  quiet  pbce,  where 
there  was  a  bunch  of  loghero  growing  in  the  middle  of  the 
fields. 

"  '  Do  you  remenib  'r,'  says  the  murderer,  '  a  young  man 
of  your  pal•i^h  that  was  spirited  away  into  these  wild  places 
and  never  heard  of  after  ?' 

"  '  The  man  was  going  to  be  married,'  says  Father  Den- 
nis, 'to  the  same  young  woman  that  is  now  a  widow,  mour- 
ning for  the  innoc;  nt  man  that  was  hunged  yesterday.' 

"  '  Did  you  mark  how  he  started  and  trembled  when  lie 
felt  the  blood  upon  his  hands,  and  saw  the  bloody  weapon  ? 
Take  this  spade  and  dig  there  ?' 

"  The  Priest  put  the  spade  into  the  earth,  and  turning 
up  so'ue  loose  sods,  there  he  saw  the  body  of  the  young 
nnin  they  were  speaking  of,  as  fresh  as  ever,  with  a  deep 
gash  on  one  side  of  the  head. 

"  '  Take  the  hatchet  that  is  on  the  breast,'  said  tho 
murderer. 

"  Father  Dennis  took  the  rusty  hatchet,  and  there,  sure 
enough,  he  found  cut  upon  the  handle,  the  name  of  the 
man  that  had  been  hanired  that  raoriiing. 


J 


THE  COINER.  423 

"*Tlicrc  is  a  God  then,'  said  a  voice  above  his  head, 
'ard  a  just  and  a  good  one.' 

"  Father  Dennis  looked  around  for  the  murderer,  but  he 
was  no  where  to  be  seen,  and  there  was  no  bnsh  nor  place 
where  he  could  hide  himself.  At  last,  looking  up,  he  saw, 
floating  in  the  air  above  him,  a  glorious  angel,  with  bright 
wings  waving,  and  white  garments  flying,  and  a  smile  on 
his  lips  like  the  dawn  of  the  May  morning. 

"  '  I  am  he  that  brought  you  here,'  said  the  angel ; 
*  Return  to  your  house  and  believe.  You  can  see  now  that 
yoiu-  doubts  were  daring  and  guilty,  and  that  it  is  not  what 
man  thinks  evil  that  is  evil  in  tl:e  sight  of  God.'  So  that's 
the  way  wit  you,  you  see,  becase  you  can't  see  the  rason 
why  Segur  should  be  murthered,  an'  he  dark,  you  think  it 
must  be  v>rong  done,  surely.  Ha!  what's  thiit — murther! 
murtlier !  how  he  runs  !  0  they're  chasen  him,  surely — • 
He's  pinned,  an'  we'll  be  all  hung  together  on  a  string,  like 
onions.  Go  along,  mother,  and  hide  yourself — Here  he  is, 
an'  they  hunten  him." 

"  Who  is  it,  Mun,  eroo  ?     Aih,  darlr n  ?" 

"No  matther,  mother  dear,  run  for  your  life sunnher* 

to  me,  (though  that's  no  great  curse)  if  you  won't  be  kilt 
av  yc'U  stop  a  n.in  it " 

"  I'll  not  stir  til!  you  come  along  wit  me  now,  Mun — " 

'•  0,  d'ye  henr  this  ?  I'll  go  to  you  to-monow,  u iw — see  ! 
that  I  mightn't  sin  af  I  wont !  I'll  be  at  your  table  by 
the  hob  with  the  first  light  in  the  mornen,  or  else,  may  I 
never  die  in  sin  !  That  the  two  hands  may  go  to  the  grave 
wit  me  av  I  don't.  That  the  head  may  stick  to  me,  now — ■ 
.mm  ther  !  only  see  how  he  flies  like  a  greyhound  over  the 
ditclies.     He'll  be  atop  o'  you  in  a  minnit — " 

"  Mun,  I  won't  lave  you  noAv  I  have  you,  for  I  know  it's 
the  last  tliat  talks  to  you  it's  them  you'll  be  said  by." 

"0  then,  see  tlis,  why  !     What  am  I  to  do  at  all  with 

•  A  good  wife. 


424  SUIL  DHUV, 

you,  afiher  all  the  curscii!  I  tel!  you  I'll  not  stop  mora 
than  this  night  wii  hiin,  and  L-n't  that  eiioogh?" 

The  old  woman's  answer  was  cut  siioit  by  the  arrival  of 
Sui!  Dhuv,  who  bounded  clear  over  the  stile  behind  them, 
and  seemed  about  to  continue  his  headlong  flight  yet  farther, 
when  Mun  laid  hold  ou  his  arm. 

"Ha!  hold  oft"?  Who  takes  my  arm?"  he  cried  in  a 
convulsion  of  fierce  terror,  while  his  eyes,  staring  and  di- 
lated, wandered  over  the  person  of  his  accomplice  (scarcely 
less  terrified),  his  hair  stirred  upon  his  forehead,  which  was 
pale  as  marble,  although  bathed  in  perspiration.  "  What 
— j\Iaher  ?     Where  are  the  horses  ?" 

"Here!   sir,   what's  the  matter?     Are  they  after  us  ?" 

"  They  are  !  they  are  !   0  blessed  night !  I'm  burning !" 

"  Who  are  they  ?" 

"All  that's  evil,  I  think!  Mount  and  be  off" — Don't 
you  see  'em,  and  hear  'em,  and  feel  'em?  /do,  if  you 
don't — There — there!"  he  added,  dashing  the  chalice  at 
Maher's  feet,  while  th>'  latter  started  back — "  there's  what 
they're  all  of  'em  screeching  after,  and  wlsat  I  brought 
thruught  the  midst  of  'em  all — take  it,  you,  and  bring  it 
along." 

'ihe  old  woman,  at  sight  of  the  sacred  cup,  clasped  her 
hands  and  uttered  a  scream  of  horror.  Sail  Diiuv  looked 
upon,  and  instantly  reco{.niscd  her.  At  the  same  instant 
too,  the  recollection  of  her  intended  benediction,  to  which 
he  had  paid  no  attention  at  the  moment  when  it  was  spoken, 
and  which  seemed  to  have  been  preserved  hitherto  in  the 
mere  avenues  of  the  sense,  now  forced  its  way  with  all  its 
original  distinctness  into  the  undei standing,  and  froze  him 
with  horror.  "  May  all  that  i/ou  do  there  be  remembered 
to  you  at  the  day  o'  judgment,  in  the  last  o'  the  world, 
and  ihroiiyh  all  eternity  for  ever  /"  The  .-oleumity  of  tlie 
anathema,  the  more  fearfid  as  it  vvas  mo.-.t  innocently  meant 
by  the  speaker,  and  seemed  to  be  altogether  the  voice  if 
Providence  uncun-ciously  iransniittcd  to  !ier,  pealed  with  a 


THE  COINER. 


425 


stnnning  influence  upon  his  heart  and  brain.  That  verj'  in- 
nocency  of  intention,  moreover,  served  only  to  increase  his 
rage  against  the  poor  woman.  He  rushed  furiously  upon 
her,  and  would,  most  probably,  have  shook  the  unfortunate 
creature's  bones  "  out  of  her  garments,"  in  spite  of  the 
vigorous  resistance  which  was  made  by  Maher,  had  not  a 
new  subject  of  alarm  suddenly  struck  his  sight.  He  relaxed 
his  hands,  which  were  clenched  hard  upon  the  throat  of  his 
accomplice,  and  remained  for  a  moment  silent,  and  staring 
fixedly  over  his  shoulder,  on  the  distant  hills. 

"  Light  he's  getten,  surely,"  said  Mun. 

"  A  judgment  from  Heaven  !"■*  exclaimed  his  mother. 

The  Coiner  continued  gazing  on  the  distance,  and 
muttering,  between  his  teeth — "  Ay  now — there  'tis — it's 
really  coming  now  through — Look,  look  at  all  the  fires 
breaking  through  the  earth — Look  ! — Look — !" 

i\Iun  turned,  and  beheld  indeed  a  sight  which  showed 
him  there  was  some  ground  fur  the  Avild  words  of  the 
Cohier.  The  mountains  and  the  plains  on  all  sides  around 
them  were  lighted  up  with  numberless  fires — the  red  lustre 
of  which,  during  the  space  of  time  consumed  by  their  con- 
yersation,  had  supplanted  that  of  the  heavy  evening  sun. 

"  'Tis  the  Eha-na-Shawn,  sure,"  says  the  old  woman. 

"  Is  it  St.  John's  fires  you'd  be  wondheren  at,  that  way  ?" 
asked  Maher. 

Suil  Dhuv  paused  a  moment,  breathed  heavily,  thvn 
sprung  into  the  an-,  siamped  both  feet  against  the  ground, 
and  shaking  back  his  hair  that  was  damp  with  perspiration, 
he  snatched  the  reins  of  his  horse  and  was  mounted  in  an 
instant. 

Maher  was  about  to  follow  his  example,  when  his  mother 
bent  forward  and  laid  her  hand  entreatingly  upon  his  aim. 
"Mun,  Mun  darlen  ?  0  Mun,  a  laniia  ma  chree!" 

"  To-mon-ow,  mother — to-morrow  morneu  I'll  be  in  ray 
father's  house  agin,  but  I  must  be  good  to  my  word  to- 
night.    Take  care  o'  the  chalice,  for  I  wouldn't  touch  it " 


42 G  SUIL  UULTV, 

8.i*d  ]\raher,  as  ho  rode  after  Iiis  laader,  the  tramping   of 
wlios^  horse's  hoots  were  already  heard  in  the  distance. 

'•  Heaven  speed  that  morrow,  then  !"  exclaimed  the  old 
woman,  chispiiig  her  hands  once  more,  and  tnrniiii;  up  her 
old  eyes  in  fervent  prayer — "  Meiven  keep  my  child  outot 
sin  and  blood  this  dreadftd  night !  Aih  !  see  where  they 
left  the  chalice,  the  two  of  Vm."  And  plucking  some 
dock-leaves,  which  she  reverently  wrapped  about  the  sacred 
vessel,  taking  care  not  to  pollute  the  consecrated  silver  by 
her  touch  (an  impiety  fron  which  it  needed  not  the  re- 
membrance of  the  fate  of  Oza  to  warn  her) — she  carried  it 
between  her  hands,  with  many  a  genuflection,  and  many  a 
sigh,  and  many  an  "  Allilu !  0  hone !  mavrone  !"  to  her 
o«n  humble  dwelling. 


CHAPTEK  X.I. 

Thou  hast  left  me,  ever,  Jamie — thou  hast  left  me  ever. 
Thou  hast  left  me,  ever,  Jamie—  thou  hast  lelt  me  ever. 
Aften  hast  thou  vowel  tliat  death  only  should  us  sever — 
Mow  tuou'st  left  tliy  lass  for  aye — I  maun  see  thee  never! 

Jamie ! 
m  see  thee  never! — Bums. 

The  reader  may  po^pibly  remember  same  allusions  made  in 
the  early  part  of  this  narrative  to  a  fair  friend  of  R  .bert 
Ivum'oa,  whose  name  has  afterwards  frequ  nth  occurred 
nnder  cii'cumslances  which  it  was  intended  should  be  in- 
teresting, although  the  original  construction  of  the  history 
has  rendeied  it  difficult  for  us  to  introduce  the  lady  jier- 
sonally  to  his  notice  before  the  present  moment.  'I'h';  story 
ot  her  love  and  her  disaijpointment  is  so  brief,  and  at  the 
same  time  (owing  to  peculiar  circumstances  in  her  dispobili m 
and  education)  so  untreqnent,  that  we  are  sure  of  obtai tang 
hi^  indulg.  nee  if  we  venture  to  arrest,  even  in  the  zenitli  of 


THE  COINER.  423 

its  middle  bound,  the  main  action  of  the  story,  for  the 
pm-pose.  of  claiming  for  one,  whose  happiness  or  misery  is 
most  closely  entiiu;:led  in  its  results,  that  portion  of  his 
attention  wiiicli  she  deserves,  and  which,  we  can  assure  him, 
she  would-be  very  unwilling  to  solicit  for  heiself. 

A  clear,  cipen  furehend,  Leautitully  ruunded  off  beneath 
a  cluster  of  that  dark  \jiot  black]  and  shining  hair,  which 
is  so  general  as  to  be  almost  characteristic  among  Munster 
maidens,  and  Avhich  parting  easily  in  the  centre  of  the 
forehead,  formed  a  darkening  semicircle  on  the  pure  marble 
of  the  sU,;:htIy  hollowed  temples,  and  fell  in  waving  curls 
upon  tlie  siioulders — a  fashion  which  was  then  very  popular 
among  those  younger  members  of  the  gentle  sex,  whose 
years  liad  not  yet  entitled  them  to  the  womanly  honours  of 
a  tete — a  masque  of  a  full,  yet  delicate  and  tapering  outHae 
— and  a  cliin  shurp,  sweet,  and  small  as  those  which  the 
gre.it  father  of  the  English  school  of  portrait  painting 
seemed  to  look  upon  as  the  cestus  of  female,  or  at  least  of 
infantine  beau  y — dimpling  to  every  smile,  and  scarcely  in- 
ferior in  expressive  sweetness  to  the  exqui.-iiely  curveel  and 
"  Wee  bit"  lips  above  it  —a  che.k  which  combined  the 
mossy  tenderness  of  thij  rose  buel,  \\ith  the  delicately 
vigijrems  hue  of  its  expanded  petals — a  nose  (it  is  an 
awkward  feature  to  intro.luce  into  a  mere  desciiption — but 
it  ever  there  was  a  rojc;  that  looked  well  in  pro.-e  or  poetry, 
that  nos^i  was  Lilly  Byrne's)  a  nose  then,  we  say  fcirhssly, 
'which  would  have  safely  braved  even  the  critical  eye  of 
that  renowned  Italian  magnate*  whose  perception  was 
so  acute  that  he  could  observe  a  fault  wliich  in  reality 
did  not  exist,  and  an  improvement  where  in  reality 
•none  iiad  taken  place,  a  fine  well-opened  eye,  over 
which  the  long  quivering  lashes  played  with  an  influence 
which  at  the  same  time  tempered  and  heightened  the  fieiy 
sweetness  of  the  light-blue  sparklers  beneath  them  ;  teeth, 

•  The    reader    needs    not    to   be    remindeil    of   the    well-knowr. 
anecdote  nf  angelo  and  his  patron. 


428  SUIL  DHUV, 

convex,  close  set,  and  pearly ;  a  neck  and  gorge  which,  as 
the  curiously  fanciful  writer  of  Arcadia  might  have  ex- 
pressed it,  formed  the  most  delightful  isthmus  that  could  be 
wished  or,  between  that  lovely  peuiiisula,  her  head,  and 
tliat  most  fair  continent,  her  person — -and  which  presented 
the  most  exquisite  model  that  even  he  could  desire,  of  that 
exquisitely  delicate  shai-puess  of  outline  which  characterises 
the  most  lady-like  of  Laurence's  portraits  ;  which  is  no  less 
characteristic  of  real  elegance  and  gentle  descent  in  the  sex 
of  Lilly  Byrne,  than  the  curling  hair  and  aquiline  nose  is  in 
the  other,  and  which,  moreover,  seems  to  de|)end  on  such  a 
hair-breadth  nicety  of  touch,  that  nothing  less  than  absolute 
instinct  or  accident  in  the  painter  can  enable  him  to  accom- 
plish it — round,  yet  narrow  shoulders,  which  wore  connected 
by  a  line  conchoid  with  the  slope  of  the  neck,  and  from 
which  the  arms  ftll  into  a  position  of  infinite  ease  and 
concord,  confined  by  the  closely  fitted  sleeve  of  the  gown 
(as  Avas  the  fashion  of  the  time)  as  low  down  as  the  elbow, 
where  the  silk  was  cut  out  from  the  hollow  of  the  arm, 
leaving  a  graceful  lap  over  the  softly  rounded  flexure,  and 
suffering  the  remainder  of  the  limb  to  continue  revealed, 
in  all  its  tapering  softness — its  elegant  diminutiveness  of 
wrist,  its  daintiness  of  finger,  and  polis'ied  convexity  of 
nail  (there  is  nothing  like  being  particular),  to  the  admira- 
tion  of  the  beholder,  unless,  perhaps,  on  certain  occasions 
when  its  beauties  were  "covered,  but  not  hid,"  by  the 
mist-like  shadowing  of  a  half-handed  silk  net  glove  ;  a  waist 
squeezed  up  into  a  cruelly  deliglitful  littleness,  such  as 
would  have  satisfied  the  charming  Lady  Mary  Montague* 
herself — confined  within  a  peaked  body,  which  was  oa  state 
occasions  ornamented  with  a  stomacher  of  small  brilliants, 
and  for  the  most  part  with  the  narrow  riobon  work  of  the 
stays,  which  were  left  exposed  by  the  opening  of  the  gown 
in  ii'ont,  that  sloped  upward  and  revealed  just  so  much  ol 

Vide  one  of  her  letters  from  Austria. 


THE  COINER.  429 

the  white  neck  as  wns  consistent  with  the  feminine  modesty 
of  the  period — and  that  wms  very  little  indeed  (we  don't 
mean  the  modesty,  but  the  neck)-^for 

Y  que  pues  Hidali^as  son, 
No  solo  no  nos  den  pechos, 
Pero  ui  pechos,  ni  espaldas  ; 

was  a  prohibition  more  in  fiivom*  with  our  f^iir  Hibernian 
ancestors  than  amonGj  the  heroines  of  Las  Arinas  dc  la 
Hcrmosura  ;  or  we  will  dare  to  say,  the  yo  in^  and  beau- 
tiful of  our  own  d;iy :  a  small  foot,  confined  within  a  sharp- 
pointed,  hii^h-hoeled  satin  shoe,  ornamented  with  rows  of 
go'd  or  silver  spangles,  and  f^lancin^  from  beneath  the  riciily 
quilted  green  siik  petticoat  (to  use  an  adiptation  of  Sir  John 
Suckling's  celebrated  simile),  like  little  gold-finches,  flut- 
tering among  the  summer  foliage  of  a  sycamore ;  an  ankle, 
the  glossy  wliiteiiess  of  which  was  qualified,  not  concealed, 
by  the  thin,  faint  fl?sh-co!oured  checked  silk  stocking,  an  J 
which  formed  the  most  perfectly  finished  termination  in  the 
woiid  to  the  classically  large  and  easily  fiishioned  p3rson  : 
these  constituted  the  claims  of  Lilly  Byrne  to  the  title  which 
was  given  her  of  the  village  beauty,  and  if,  after  all  the 
pains  we  have  been  at  in  detailing  them,  the  reader  should 
refuse  to  have  those  claims  allowed,  we  can  only  say  that 
we  wish  him  a  better  taste. 

But  the  portrait  which  we  have  just  presented  was  that 
wh'ch  a.  painter  might  have  taken  with  advantage,  when 
Lilly  Byrne  was  younger  and  happier  than  she  was  on  this 
day;  when  the  hope  of  authorised  affection  lived  in  her 
h  'art,  and  breathed  in  every  movement  of  her  frame  ;  when 
she  loitered  and  listened  with  a  cheek  alternately  flashing 
and  whitening  wii.h  the  gentle  tumultuousness  of  ex- 
pectation for  the  approach  of  her  accepted  lover,  mis- 
taking the  creaking  of  the  iron  yard-gate  for  his  pattering 
summons  upon  the  brazen  rapper  of  the  hall-door,  nibbling 
her  pretty  lip  in  anger  at  the  disappointment,  glancing 


430  SUIL  DHUV, 

tou'arcis  the  window,  and  alotiff  the  elevated  Iwvn  bv  wluch 
ho  was  to  approach,  liiigetting  and  qnarreliui^  with  hei 
work,  talkhiiT  of  everythin:jj  but  the  subject,  and  blushing 
even  to  her  finsjers'  ends,  when  she  found  herself  detected 
in  the  midst  of  her  nian(TRUvres  by  the  experienced  eye  of 
her  mother,  or  the  sudden,  loud  laugh  of  her  fitlier,  as 
their  glances  met — when  the  day  was  consumed  bet'veon 
the  lovers  in  those  unmeaning  words  and  actions,  which, 
between  lovers,  have  so  deep  a  meaning — in  jests  which 
were  laughed  at,  and  not  worth  being  laughed  at,  and  tho?e 
tantalizing  annoyances,  by  which  even  the  most  sincere  and 
the  fondest  among  the  gentle  tyrants  of  the  hours  of  court- 
ship delight  in  manifesting  their  power  over  the  great  awk- 
ward fool  who  is  lying  at  their  feet* — a  power,  indeed,  which, 
considering  how  very  short-lived  it  is  in  genera!,  it  would 
be  an  act  of  naughty  supererogation  to  take  from  them  ; 
when  light  heart  and  merry  word  was  the  order  of  the  diy, 
when  Lilly  Byrne  conld  do  nothing  for  Robert  Kumba,  who 
was  hiding  her  i)al's  of  cotton  and  her  bobbin,  and  pulling 
the  thread  out  of  her  needle,  and  Robert  protested  it,  was 
Lilly  herself  tiiat  was  so  idle,  and  mama  remonstrated,  and 
A\ished  that  Mr.  Rub  rt  Kumba  would  mind  his  own  busi- 
ness, so  she  did,  and  let  her  daugliter  mind  hers,  anil 
Robert  said  Lilly  was  a  spiteful  little  toll-tale,  and  the  old 
gentleman  said  they  were  all  a  parcel  of  fools  together,  and 
— but  if  we  say  more,  we  shall  come  in  for  a  share  of  the 
censure. 

Few  love-matches  commencing  under  such  circumstances, 
so  blameless  and  so  seemingly  prosperous,  were  ever  so  sud- 
denly deranged  and  overclouded  as  this  was. 

The  affair  proceeded  far  beyond  tiiat  limit  within  which 
the  jyrospects,  at  least,  if  not  the  feelings  of  a  girl  may  be 
said  to  remain  secure.  Tiiose  little  privileges  of  address, 
which  arc  not  even  allowed  to  the  accepted  lover,  until  all 
is  believed  to  be  as  certain  of  accomplishment  as  if  the  cere- 
mony had  already  passed,  and  vvdiich  periiaps  it  were  well  tor 


THE    COINER.  431 

the  [H'nce  and  happiness  of  many  a  forsaken  lieart  to  liave 
altogether  |)rohil)ited,  until  the  very  possibility  of  a  di-^ap- 
pointinent  had  been  removed,  had  been  long  accorded  t« 
Kobert  Kumba.  The  envied  and  (what  was  more)  enviable 
position  by  her  side  on  all  occasions — the  solitary  e\enii)g 
walk — the  tete-a  tete  in  crowds — the  certainty  that  he  im- 
parted pleasure  while  he  whispered  welcome  nonsense  in 

"  The  soft  labyrinth  of  a  lady's  ear," 

and  a  thousand  other  harmless  intimacies  which  the  memory 
of  those  who  have  been,  the  consciousness  of  those  who  are. 
and  the  imagination  of  those  who  wish  to  be,  lovers,  will 
save  us  the  pains  of  recounting — were,  for  a  long  timo. 
freely  granted  him  ;  and  tlie  consequence  was,  that  he  had 
at  length  become  com))letely  wound  up  and  entangled  with 
all  the  joys,  the  sorrows,  the  hopes,  and  the  fears  of  the 
young  and  ardent  girl,  that  it  should  be  as  reasonable  to 
look  for  the  survival  of  her  happines  after  he,  its  heart, 
had  been  snatched  from  her,  as  to  suppose  that  her  mateiial 
frame  should  continue  uninjured  in  any  of  its  functions  after 
the  great  organ  of  life  had  been  torn  from  her  bosom.  She 
died  this  moral  death,  however  ;  for  her  lover  was  snatched 
from  her — and  so  suddenly,  that  the  ruin  reached  her  spirit 
even  before  a  single  fear  could  prepare  her  for  its  a|iproacli. 
The  manner  of  the  "break  oft"  was  so  strange  and  rapid 
—so  utterly  unlooked  for — so  startling  and  dream-like, 
that  all  was  past  and  gone  before  she  could  even  imagine 
the  possibility  of  her  desolation. 

The  lovers  had  been  taking  their  usual  evening  walk, 
and  were  occupying  their  usual  position  on  the  strait-backed 
strait-armed,  chintz-covered  sofa  (or  settee,  as  it  was  then 
called),  Lilly  com[)laining  pettishly  of  fatigue,  while  her 
lover  untied  the  strings  of  her  gypsy-fashioned  white  chip 
hat,  and  laid  aside  her  scarf — while  Mrs.  Byrne  sat  knit- 
ting a  grey  worsted  stocking  by  the  clear  turf  tire,  and  a 
clean,  sleek  tortoise-shell  cat  sat  on  her  knee,  in  that  beau- 


432  suiL  pnuv, 

tiful  position  for  which  it  is  almost  proverbially  celebrated, 
piirriuo-  its  inonotoiious  song  of  ]>leasiire  and  contentment 
— and  while  Mr.  l^)yrne,  who  had  manifested  a  degree  of 
reserve  in  his  manner  to  Kumba  thronghout  the  evening, 
which  was  attribnted  by  the  latter  to  the  accident  of  some 
disappointment  in  his  farming  affairs,  continued  walking 
slowly  back  and  forward  fi'om  the  corner  near  the  cujiboard 
to  the  corner  near  the  window,  jingling  a  handful  of  half- 
pence beliind  his  back,  and  humming  the  popular  air,  the 
burthen  of  wdiich  runs  : 

Dliolinshin  cna'skecn,  lawn,  lawn,  lawn, 
Dholinshin  cruiskeen,  lawn, 
J)h()!iusliin  criiiskecn 
Slduiilha  ^id  mn  vnnrnecn 
Bohuinilum  a  cuulccn  dhuv  no  bawn.* 

On  a  sudden  the  old  gentlemen  stopped  short,  and  said, 

"Robert  Kumba,  who  were  those  people  I  saw  on  the 
grnmids,  over,  to-dav  ?" 

Kumba  let  Lilly's  hand  go,  and  reddened  slightly,  with 
the  angry  consciousness  of  one  who  conceives  that  a 
"  liberty"  is  about  to  be  taken  with  him. 

"  They  were — poh  ! — they  were  fellows  from  l\f  r.  Rose, 
sir." 

"  1  thought  so.  Where  are  the  little  vavgh  of  black 
cattle  that  you  were  so  proud  of,  that  you  had  in  the  ciist 
mejidow  a  week  ago,  Robert  ?" 

"  O  then,  sir,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know — they're  gone,  Sir," 
said  Kumba,  in  increased  displeasure. 

"  Sold  r 

"  I'oh — yes — "  with  an  impatient  laugh. 

*  "  With  this  litUo  vessel  full,  full,  full,! 
With  this  little  vessel  full, 
With  this  little  vessel— 
Here's  a  vvhit<3  health,  my  little  flear, 
I  don't  care  whether  your  hair  is  black  or  fair  " 

Is  not  this  in  the  spirit  of  Sheridan's  "  Let  the  toast  pass,"  &o. 


TUE  COINEE.  433 

"Byvou  Robert?" 

"  By  the  driver,  sir." 

"I  am  sorry  to  heir  it — 'tliey  vvere  a  great  loss." 

"  0,  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  any  body  to  tell  me  that. 
They  wouldn't  go  if  I  could  hslp  it." 

'•Don't  speak  so  impatiently,  Rjbert,  to  yoar  friends. 
'Tis  in  kindness  I  speak,  believe  me.  Your  uncle  James 
says  that  yo:i  c^uld  hive  halpjd  it." 

"  My  uncle  Janes,"  said  Kumbi,  veheni?ntly,  "  never 
interferes  in  my  business  from  any  kind  or  generous  motive. 
I  wish  he  would  spare  his  censures,  since  he  can  afford 
nothing  else." 

"  I  don't  know  but  a  timely  censure  may  be  a  very  good 
thing,"  said  Mr.  Byrne,  in  a  fair  and  easy  way ;  '•  and  I 
should  like  to  hear  you  show  that  this  was  undeserved  be- 
foro  you  get  into  a  passion  about  it." 

"  0,  well,  there  has  been  enough  about  it  now,"  said 
Kumb.i,  turning  to  Lilly,  whose  a2;ony  during  this  seme 
may  be  well  imagined — "  Come,  Lilly,  will  you  play  a  game 
of  chess  ?" 

"  Indeed,  sir,  there  has  not  been  enough  about  it,"  re- 
plied the  father ;  "  and  I  am  determined  to  have  a  great 
deal  more  about  it  before  Miss  Bynxe  either  plays  chess  or 
plays  the  fool." 

"  Miss  Byrne!"  Kumba  could  not  help  echoing  uncon- 
sciously, in  a  murmur  of  perfect  astonishment. 

"  I  give  myself  great  blame,"  continued  the  old  gentle- 
man, his  warmth  gradually  increasing  as  the  subject  became 
more  fully  developed,  "that  I  did  not  take  care  to  ma.ke 
myself  aware  much  sooner  of  all  the  circumstances  that  I 
have  heard  to-day.     Lilly,  go  to  your  room." 

"  Whatever  you  may  have  to  say  to  me,  sir,"  said 
Kumba,  taking  Lilly's  hand,  which  trembled  in  his,  and 
smiling,  thoagh  with  a  quivering  lip,  upon  her — "  may  be 
said  in  Miss  Byrns's  presence.     Our  interests  are  single." 

'•Not yet,  thank  heaven! — Do  vou  hear  me,  madam?" 

19 


d34  SUIL  DHUV, 

Lilly,  who  knew  the  extremities  of  anger  which  liei 
father  was  capable  of  indulging,  looked  entreatingly  to- 
waids  her  mother. 

"  Perhaps  you  were  misinformed,  my  dear,"  interposed 
Mrs.  Byrne,  gently. 

"  I  was  misinformed,  my  dear,"  said  her  husband,  pas- 
sionately ;  "  I  was  misinformed  when  I  took  a  spendthrift 
find  a  prodigal  into  my  house — a  wasteful,  extravagant 
wretch — (don't  stop  me,  woman  !) — that  is  sitting  there 
now  with  his  mouth  open  looking  at  me,  after  having 
squandered  the  beautiful  property  that  was  left  him  not 
four  years  since,  and  plunged  himself  over  head  and  ears  in 
debt,  while  I  thought  he  was  clearing  oflf  those  left  by  his 
father." 

Mrs.  Byrne  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  dis- 
may, and  poor  Lilly's  heart  sunk  as  low  as  if  the  whole 
world  were  forsaking  her. 

"  You  were  much  mistaken,  sir,  if  you  supposed  that  it 
was  ever  my  wish  or  intention  to  avail  myself  of  your  ig- 
norance on  that  head,"  said  Kumba,  spirited!}/. 

'"  I  wish  I  had  known  that  sooner,"  letorted  the  father. 

"0,  'tis  never  too  late  for  repentance,  sir,"  said  Kumba, 
s] 'ringing  quickly  from  the  sofa.  "  I  permit  no  intermed- 
dling in  my  affairs." 

"Young  man! "  IMr.  Byrne  exclaimed — his  aged 

brow  flushing,  and  his  frame  tremliling  with  anger — "  but 
no — pish  !  no — "  checking  his  anger  by  a  violent  effort — 
"  this  is  not  altogether  my  affair.  Hear  me,  sir.  Yon 
shall  not  enter  these  doors  again  for  six  months.  If  dur- 
ing that  time  you " 

"  0,  my  good  sir,  you  deceive  yourself  very  egregiously," 
said  Kumba,  with  all  the  pride  of  voice  and  manner  which 
he  was  capable  of  assuming — "  my  course,  my  conduct,  my 
fortunes,  and  my  mij^fortunes  are  my  own.  You  cannot 
point  my  way,  sir      Undeceive  your.^elf,  if  you  please." 

"  Very  well  said  sir,"  replied  the  old  gentleman,  smiling 


THE  COINER. 


435 


and  bowinjii: — "  yon  are  your  own  master,  atid  a  fine  scholar 
you  have,  sh*.  But  suppose  I  said  your  way  lay  there, 
sir  ?"  pointing  to  the  door. 

"  I  could  find  it  without  giving  you  the  trouble,  sir,'' 
said  Kumba. 

"  The  sooner  the  better  then,  sir,"  the  father  continued, 
smiling  and  bowing  him  out  affectedly. 

"  As  soon  as  I  get  my  hat,"  siiid  the  other,  snatching  it 
at  the  same  moment,  with  a  degree  of  levity  which,  though 
in  accordance  with  all  his  character,  the  poor  stupified 
Lilly  could  not  help  feeling  was  unkind  almost  to  hearthss- 
ness,  and  muttering,  as  he  returned  her  fathers  ironic  d 
smiles,  something  about  "  the  old  man's  j^rudence"  and 
his  own  "  niist'urlunes." 

"  Quit  my  house,  ruffian  1"  and  the  old  man  now  broka 
forth  in  a  paroxysm  of  fury,  while  his  wile  and  daughter 
flung  themseives  with  cries  of  terror  about  his  neck — 
"  quit  my  house,  ungrateful  scoundrel  that  you  are,  or  I'd 
flin;!,-  you  out  of  the  window." 

Kumba,  perceiving  at  once  all  the  impropriety  of  his  con- 
duct, used  an  actiuu  which  seemed  as  though  he  wished  to 
say  something  in  extenuation,  when  he  was  prevented  by 
Lilly,  whose  displeasure  (for  she  could  be  displeased  on 
occ.ision  as  Avell  as  another)  had  been  strongly  roused  by 
the  last  insult  to  her  p^irent. 

"  Begone,  sir  1"  she  exclaimed,  drawing  up  her  head, 
with  a  tone  and  look  of  virtuous  anger,  before  which 
Kumba's  own  pride  crumbled  into  dust — "  I  did  not  know 
you  unlil  now.  We  want  neither  you  presence  nor  3  our 
apology.  Yoic  have  deceived  yourself,  sir,  if  you  suppose 
that  i>ny  intere-t  you  may  possess  in  my  affeciious  can 
make  me  in-ensible  to  the  duly  I  owe  my  father.  How 
dared  you,  six',"  she  continued,  panting  with  agitation — 
"how  could  you  use  such  coaise  terms  to  my  father — ind 
in  my  presence?      Go,  sir,  your  apology  can  do  little  !" 

Li  a  few  seconds  the  hall-door  had  closed  on  the  rejected 


43G  suiL  Dnuv, 

Kumba,  while  tho  old  man  gathered  his  daughter  to  lila 
bosom  with  murmured  praises  and  kisses  of  afiectionate  ad- 
miration. This  access  of  renderni'ss,  however,  was  the  most 
injudicious  course  that  could  have  been  used  in  the  present 
condition  of  our  little  herdine's  feelings.  It  softened  and 
let  down  the  strini^s  of  her  generous  nature,  and  unhinged 
the  proud  consciousness  of  injuiy  by  \\hich  she  had  been 
sustained.  She  sunk  from  between  his  arms  in  a  tit  of  con- 
vulsive giief,  succeeded  by  fainting  and  renewed  hysterics, 
which  it  required  all  the  usual  expedients  of  ether,  burnt 
feathers,  and  cold  affusions  to  subdue. 

For  many  days  after  this  occurrence  had  taken  place, 
Lilly  could  not  peisuade  herself  that  all  was  in  reality  at  an 
end  between  her  and  her  lover,  and  that  the  scene  which 
she  had  witnessed  was  other  than  a  dream.  All  passed  so 
suddenly,  so  s\\  iftly,  so  unexpectedly  !  she  could  not  believe 
that  the  beautiful  and  glittering  fabric  which  her  young  and 
sanguine  heart  had  constructed  with  so  much  pains  and  self- 
gratulation,  should  thus,  at  the  very  point  of  its  completion, 
be  utterly  hurried  from  her  view,  passing  as  rapidly  as  the 
rushing  of  a  summer  Avind,  and  leaving  no  trace  of  its  ex- 
istence more  evident  than  the  dreary  sound  of  its  departing 
glory.  She  still  listened  while  at  her  work  for  the  knock 
of  her  lover — suffering  under  an  agony,  in  which  all  the 
fever  of  protracted  expectation  was  combined  with  the  sullen 
and  barren  stillness  of  despair.  Every  approaching  foot- 
step startled  her  with  a  sudden  hope,  which  was  awakened 
only  to  be  again  struck  lileless  by  the  p:'ng  of  a  disappi  int- 
ment  quite  as  sudden.  Her  parenis  no  longer  riceived 
from  her  that  devoted  attention  which  in  the  security  of  her 
youthful  affection  she  had  been  accustomed  to  pay  them. 
When  she  knelt  before  them  and  bent  her  head  to  receive 
the  parental  benediction  at  morning  and  evening,  the  once 
sweetly  murmured  "  Blessing,  father ;  mother,  blessing!" 
was  hurried  over  almost  uucon.H•iou^ly  ;  and  the  afiectionato 
prayer  of  the  old  couple,  that  "  God  would  bless  her,  and 


THE  COINER.  437 

TnarK  her  to  grace  !"  full  with  the  influence  of  an  unmean- 
ing sound  upon  her  e;\r.  Her  more  secret  devotions,  too, 
■were  distr:icted  and  uni^atisfiictor}'.  When  she  detected 
heiself  in  the  midst  of  a  train  of  Avandering  r  flections,  it 
was  in  vain  that  she  reproached  herself,  knelt  more  erect, 
clasped  lier  hands  more  firmly,  and  attempted  by  gazing 
steadily  upward  to  raise  her  thouglits  ahove  her  own  \\orldly 
interests,  and  still  the  unsettled  tiirobbing  of  her  heart,  by 
striving  to  lay  al!  its  feelings  at  repose  in  the  lap  of  a  pious 
confidence.  The  form  of  Hubert  Kumba,  with  iiis  angry, 
rude,  and  selfishly  passionate  look,  would  come  floating  on 
the  eye  of  her  memory,  through  the  upper  air,  and  tlieu 
every  word  and  ;!Ction,  no  sound  or  ges;ure  omitted,  of  the 
scene  which  had  t;dien  place  would  steal  silently  through 
her  brain,  her  heart  would  swell  and  tlirob  with  a  new 
tumult,  to  be  followed  by  a  new  self-recollection,  a  new 
etlort  at  r;  siL;natien.  and  again  a  new  distraction  and  a 
new  distress.  Her  Kttle  domestic  arranijements,  also,  were 
conducted  with  less  care  and  diligence  than  formerly. 
The  tortoise  cat  (before  mentioned)  had  holiday  times  in 
the  pantry,  the  door  of  which,  notwihstanding  all  Mrs. 
Byrne's  ag<  nized  remonstriinces,  was  re;  eatedly  left  aj  ir, 
and  the  good  lady  was  once  heard  solemnly  to  afiiim,  that 
sh-  had  found  the  animal  actually  lapping  tlie  milk  at  one 
sid.'  of  the  j}eck  or  heeler*  while  Lilly  wasekimming  at  the 
other.  The  full-bound  [firkiii]  of  bntt"r,  home-made, 
which  formed  one  of  Lilly's  own  housekeeping  perqui:?ites, 
remained  unhlled,  although  the  fair  of  Cork  was  fast 
approaching,  and  uncle  Cuthbert,  the  grazier,  had  repeat- 
edly ofltred  to  dispose  of  it  along  Avith  las  own,  which  was 
alw.iys  first  quality,  because  the  butter  taster  was  a  parti- 
Ciilar  fiiend  of  his  ;  a  series  of  advantages,  the  possibility  ot 

*  Probably  derived  from  the  old  English   Keel,   to  cool— as  Lq 
SLakspeaie: — 

"  While  greasy  John  doth  keel  the  pot." 


438  SUIL  DHUV, 

losing  which   made  poor  Mrs.   Byrne's  heart  ache  "witi 
apprehension. 

Her  (lan.::hter,  hou'ever,  continued  to  neglect  the  fair  of 
Cork — her  fine  uncle — the  full-bound — the  tortoise-cat  and 
the  pantry-door,  in  spite  of  all  her  lectures.  Her  fits  of  ab- 
straction and  absent  acts  and  words  continued  to  grow  and 
fasten  the  more  upon  her  manner  in  proportion  as  they  were 
observed,  and  her  melancholy,  which  at  no  time  presented 
violent  symptoms,  was  silently  wearing  a  channel  in  her 
heart,  which  deepened  so  rapidly,  as,  at  length,  to  endanger 
the  foundation  of  her  health  itself.  "  Dry  sorrow  baked 
her  blood."  She  would  frequently  gaze  for  a  long  hour 
together  upon  the  sunny  lawn  befure  the  windows  of  the 
house,  with  a  fixed  and  teirlesseye,  absorbed  in  a  fit  of  in- 
tense abstraction — from  which,  if  nnisi'd  by  her  mother  after 
many  unheeded  calls,  she  would  start  (like  one  who  had  been 
surprised  into  slumber,)  with  a  tiioiisand  hurried  apologies; 
if  hy  her  father,  with  a  sharp  and  peevish  shortness  of  reply, 
Avliich  was  most  foreign  to  her  character,  and  v/hich  made  tha 
old  man's  heart  bleed. 

She  never  wept ;  but  very  frequently,  when  passing  to 
lier  room  at  night,  she  wo;dd  pause  in  the  middle  of  the  long 
and  narrow  flagged  hall — the  caudle  elevated  in  one  hand, 
M'liile  the  other  gathered  her  thin  night-dress  about  her  bosom 
— and  remain  motionless  as  a  statue,  her  eyes  rivetted  oa 
the  ground,  her  lips  parted  as  if  in  astmiishnient,  and  her 
whole  being  apparently  suspended,  for  several  minutes,  until 
at  length  the  conviction  of  her  desolation  cami  back  upon 
her,  and  biting  her  nether  lip,  while  s'le  uttered  a  low,  tre- 
mulous, and  murmuring  scream  of  anginsli,  slie  would  rush 
along  the  passage  to  her  own  apartment,  and  fling  herself 
on  tlie  bed  in  a  passion  of  tearless  grief,  which  wasted  it- 
self in  short  sobs,  shiverings,  and  nuiliercd  sounds  of  suf- 
fering. 

Mrs.  Byrne  could  not  "  tell  what  to  make"  of  ad  tills. 
She  could  not  fjrni  a  Conception  of  any  ill  affection  of  the 


THE  COINER,  439 

frame  -wliich  was  uticoDnoctetl  with  a  positive  disease — find 
though  grief  might  [lossibly  affect  a  young  girl  a  little  in  the 
manner  of  Lilly's  complaint,  it  conkl  not  possibly  be  grief, 
lor  Lilly  cried  a  great  deal  less  than  she  did  herself.  Her 
father  seemed  by  his  silence  to  understand  the  matter  better 
— but,  as  he  saw  no  remedy,  he  did  not  think  there  was  any 
use  in  contesting  the  point — and  held  his  peace  thi^refore, 
when  Mrs.  Byrne,  arguing  from  the  hot  and  dry  skin  of  tho 
patient,  pronounced  a  sentence  of  typhas  fever  (;he  pi  ii:ue 
of  Ireland).  Sirange  to  say,  ne\ertheless,  although  Mrs. 
liyrne  was  wrong  in  her  premises,  she  was  right  in  her  con- 
clusion, and  her  diagnostic  was  confirmed  b-y  the  physician 
of  tlie  neighbouring  village. 

The  old  man  was  now  really  terrified.  He  loved — he 
doated  on  his  dau-httr,  and  tlie  actual  conviclion  of  her 
danger  burst  upon  him  with  the  influence  of  a  sudden  and 
deep  mis'oituiie.  He  would  have  given  the  whole  farm, 
live  stock  and  all,  to  hear  that  the  doctor  was  wrong  (and 
*'  sure"  that  would  be  no  such  miracle  Heither)  ;  but  the 
doctor  in  thio  instance  was  right — a  typhus  fever  he  pro- 
nounced the  complaint,  and  a  typlius  fever  poor  Lilly  had 
— a  fcvcr  that  wasted  and  sapped  her  brain,  and  bi ought 
her  to  the  very  gates  of  freedom.  As  the  illness  proceeded, 
and  the  doctor's  face  lengthened  in  sympatiiy  \\\i\\  his  bil!, 
the  old  man's  agony  b  came  absolutc-ly  phrenetic — Le 
usurped  the  mother's  place  and  the  moihir's  offices  by  the 
bedside  of  the  sufferer — mixed  the  saline  draughts,  admin- 
istered the  medicine  with  his  own  hands,  and  spent  long 
nights  in  sleepless  anxiety  by  her  couch. 

'•  I'll  tell  you  what  'II  come  of  it,"  the  servants  said  to 
one  another  in  the  kitchen,  "  the  poor  darlen  '11  die — Lord 
save  her — an'  himself  '11  be  fit  to  be  tied,  with  lightness, 
afther — :hit  'il  be  the  way  of  it." 

But,  like  the  good  people  of  Islingt  n,  the  rogues  wera 
out  in  their  prognosiic,  for  Lilly  recovered  of  the  fever — her 
robust  father  it  was  that  died.     We  might  be  censured  in 


440  SUIL  DHUV, 

tliese  enliglitened  tlmos  if  we  asserted  that  he  took  the  fever 
from  his  mirsehng;  but  it  male  little  matter  to  poor  Byrne 
whether  the  disease  was  contagions  or  no — for  the  fever  he 
look,  wherever  he  got  it — and  he  died  of  it  too — died  after 
extorting — no — we  do  him  and  his  dangliter  grievous  wrong 
by  using  the  Avord — after  obtaining  from  Lilly  a  readily 
accorded  promise  that  she  wonld  never  receive  Knmba  again 
into  her  presence  until  he  had  gained  a  place  for  liimself  in 
the  estimation  of  those  whose  esteem  was  worth  his  seeking, 
and  until  her  mother  should  withdraw  the  interdict  which 
he  left  upon  his  visits. 

Tiie  reader  may  imagine  Avhat  he  pleases  of  the  force  of 
passion,  and  of  female  fickleness,  and  feebleness,  and  a 
great  mnny  other  easily-  mouthed  phrases,  which  ai-e  more 
fashionable,  we  suspect,  in  certain  romances,  than  in  human 
nature ;  but  we  can  assure  him  that  there  are  girls  in  the 
world  upon  whose  perseverance  and  resolution  a  reliance 
might  be  placed  as  secure  as  that  which  one  would  repose 
on  the  iinimess  of  a  Min.i  or  a  Bolivar — in  situations  far 
more  trying  th.in  any  which  those  rude,  rocky- hearted  fel- 
lows could  be  tempted  with — a  resolution,  too,  a  great  deal 
more  noble  in  its  motive  than  theirs  ;  for  those  gentle  crea- 
tures do  from  duty,  and  even  in  violence  to  their  natures, 
what  a  great  rough  man  will  do  from  pride,  and  the  im- 
pulse of  a  ferocious  and  passionate  temperament.  While 
tlie  one  breasts  the  shock  as  sulkily  as  a  rocky  headland  in 
a  tempest,  the  other  yields  and  recoils  alternately,  blending 
the  grace  of  submission  with  the  dignity  of  self-assertion, 
like  a  willow  in  a  swiftly  gliding  stream,  seeming  to  droop 
and  suffer  itself  to  be  hurried  away  by  the  torrent  that  has 
entrapped  its  boughs,  while  it  clings  whh  an  easy  determina- 
tion to  the  bank  where  it  has  taken  root.  Lilly  Byrne  was 
just  such  a  giil  as  we  have  described.  Feeble  in  heart  and 
frame  as  the  feeblest  of  her  sex,  her  conduct  showed  as  if 
the  energy  which  had  bien  stolen  by  long  suffering  from 
the  latter  liad  been  all  transferred  to  her  mind,  and  erected 


THE  COINEK.  441 

there  into  a  tower  of  strength,  against  wliich  all  the  as- 
saults of  feeling  and  still  surviving  at^ectlon  (for  love  like  hers 
could  not  b'  exiingui-hod)  were  univaillngly  though  power- 
fully directed.  Religion  was  her  grand  stay  in  those  days 
of  pining  and  of  solitude. 

Startled  by  the  dangerous  illness  with  which  she  had 
been  visited,  and  touched  by  the  restoration  of  her  healt  1, 
she  had  looked  earnestly  from  the  interests  of  her  heart  to 
those  of  her  soul,  and  had  at  length,  after  much  self-ex- 
amination, and  prayer,  and  self-restraint,  succeeded  in  ob- 
taining the  object  of  her  exertions,  that  true  religion  which, 
by  making  all  earthly  affections  subservient  to  the  one 
eternal  and  divine,  frees  its  votary  from  all  possibility  of 
an  entanglement  in  the  latter  which  could  be  dangerous  to 
his  peace  of  mind  (at  least).  That  true  religion  we  mean, 
which,  notwithstanding  all  the  efforts  of  wit,  and  genius 
ill-directed,  and  learning  ill-applied,  has  lain,  and  still  con- 
tinues to  lie  bedded  amongst  the  instincts  of  the  mighty  heart 
of  mankind,  governing  the  tumultuous  action  of  its  pas- 
sions, and  sweetening  all  its  impulses,  inspiring  it  with  thit 
finely  ambitious  love  which,  scorning  to  iix  it^elt  upon  any 
of  tlie  residls  of  nature,  mounts  at  once  to  the  First  Cause 
as  well  as  the  centre  of  all  beauty,  as  the  obji'Ct  most  worthy 
of  it,  and  there  lies  sheltered  with  all  its  h.opes,  its  pains, 
its  sorrows,  and  its  fears,  while  riie  tempes-s  of  human 
evil  roll  in  harm"e-s  murmurs  to  its  fee^,  and  the  sunlight  of 
human  happiness  is  made  more  calm  and  suimv  by  th  ■  re- 
flection of  its  smi'es.  That  true  rdigion  wliich,  far  from 
steeling  the  tone  of  the  heart  to  a  philosophical  inditreicce 
(as  its  calumniators  say,  while  they  mistake  it  for  its  ape, 
fanaueism),  give*  a  keener  ed^e  to  sympathy,  a  warmer 
pulse  to  moral  feeling  and  affection,  which  bids  the  heart 
be  hard  to  nuthing  but  crime,  cold  to  no  hing  but  the  sug- 
ges;ions  of  evil,  and  de.if  to  notliing  but  tie  call  of  selfish- 
ness, which  presents  the  only  and  periectly  sausfacio'-y 
soluUoa  that  can  be  ofilred  to  that  miglity  enigma,  the 
19* 


442  SUIL  DHUV, 

creation,  aixl  ■v\lii(.h  can  make  a  grander  .spectacle  sfilj 
than  all  the  rnaterial  Avonders  of  that  creation — a  man,  at 
least  equal  to  the  philosopher  in  moral  goodness  and  in 
dignity  of  endurance,  and  superior  to  the  philosopher  in 
sublimity  of  motive. 

S  ;rrow,  however,  had  been  beforeliand  with  piety  in  the 
heart  of  our  little  heroine ;  and  though  the  latter  re-con- 
quered, or,  at  all  events,  contested  the  possession  of  the 
region  with  the  spoilei",  it  could  not  repair  the  ravages 
wliich  had  been  already  made.  The  acuteness  of  the  pang 
was  blunted  and  made  dull,  and  a  sweetness  was  breathed 
npon  the  festering  wound  that  tempered  and  allayed  its 
anguish  ;  but  neither  the  danger  nor  the  suffering  were  re- 
moved— for  religion,  even  sucli  as  hers,  is  a  soother  and 
par:iclete,  not  a  liberator;  and  the  world  would  be  no  longer 
a  place  of  probation  if  it  were  otherwise.  The  last  struggle 
wliich  Lilly  had  to  maintain  j-gainst  her  own  heart  was  on 
the  day  on  which  Kumba,  after  suft'ering  many  monihs  to 
jiass  away  without  daring  to  intrude  upon  the  grief  of  the 
family,  requested  (by  a  letter,  addressed,  with  a  delicacy 
of  which  he  was  very  capable,  and  which  Lilly  appreciated 
at  its  full  worth,  to  Mrs.  Byrne)  to  be  permitted  to  visit  them. 

Lilly  and  her  mother  were  both  seated  at  tiie  breakfast- 
table  when  the  messenger  entered  with  the 'note. 

"  A  letter  that  one  left  for  you,  ma'am." 

"  From  whom,  James  ? — yive  it  me,"  said  j\rrs.  Byrne. 

The  servant  approached,  watching  the  eyes  of  ''  the 
young  missiz,"  and  availing  himself  of  every  moment 
\>hen  they  were  turned  from  him,  to  communicate,  by  a 
hundrei  cautionary  grimaces,  gestures,  winks,  jerks  of  the 
head,  dilations  of  the  eyes  and  mouth,  and  other  strange 
conturt'ons,  some  indication  of  the  nature  of  its  contents. 
Mrs.  Byrne,  however,  was  not  sufficiently  quick  of  ap- 
prehension. 

"What  do  you  moan,  James ^  Why  c/o?i'f  you  give 
n;c  the  loiti  r  ?" 


THE  COINER.  4-13 

"B'kiys  he  toitlt  me — to — you  know" — (t-n  ning  his 
back  to\v;ird-<  Li'iy,  and  pointing  liis  thumb  slily  over  his 
shoulder,  while  his  eyes  seemed  to  reverse  theu:8;lves  in 
their  sockets) — "he  did,  indeed." 

"  Well,  you  are  the  qneercst  man  that  ever  lived.  He 
did  what  7     Who   did  ?" 

"  j\ir.  Kuuiba  did !"  thundered  the  man,  exasperated 
beyond  all  paiience.  "  Koberth  Kuniba,  sense  I  can't 
make  yoii  see  it — that's  what  he  did.  There's  no  use  in 
talking!"  he  added,  grumbling,  as  he  tossed  the  letter 
carelessly  on  the  breakfast-table,  and  turned  to  depart. 

Lilly  did  not  stai  t — nor  break  a  tea-cup — nor  scream — 
nor  perform  any  other  of  those  antics  of  astonishment 
which,  perhaps,  those  of  my  fair  readers  who  are  veised  in 
the  stage-business  of  romance  might  have  expecied  fiom  her. 
More  quick  of  eye  and  apprehension  than  her  mother, 
she  had  formed  a  just  conjecture  on  the  subject,  fi-om  the 
moment  she  beheld  the  servant's  caution,  on  entering  the 
room,  and  Mrs.  Byrne,  had  she  looked  towards  her  daughter, 
might  have  seen  in  her  flushed  and  whitening  forehead, 
her  irenibling  Up,  and  straining  bosom,  that  which  woukl 
have  saved  her  the  trouble  of  asking  so  many  questions, 
and  the  ^in  of  putting  James  in  a  passion. 

'•  It  is  from  Robert,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Byrne,  looking  for 
her  spectacles — "  who  brought  it,  James  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  that,  thin,  ma'am,"  said  James,  turning 
suddenly  round,  and  forgetting  all  his  anger  in  the  intere>t 
of  the  new  question.  "  I'll  tell  you  all  about  that,"  he  re- 
peated in  a  soft  tone,  as  if  fearful  of  being  overheard  ;  then 
bending  his  person,  and  stretching  his  head  to  the  furthest 
limit  that  his  neck  (as  coarse,  and  almost  as  long,  as  a 
cable)  would  permit,  while  he  still  held  the  handle  of  the 
door  behind  his  back,  "I'll  tell  you  that,"  he  once  more 
repeated,  huildng  the  tone  of  his  voice  into  a  whisper  that 
was  all  but  inaudible, — '■^himse/f  do  less  !" — and  then,  con- 
firming by  a  nod  the   truth  of  what  he   alleged,  he  sud- 


444  SUIL  DHUV, 

d  v.]y  flren-  hi'vsplf  np  to  1  is  fall  1  ei.!.:ht.  nml  stared  as  if  in 
SV111)  afliy  with  the  nstonisl  ment  \p  had  excited. 

"  My  gordnrss  !"  exclaimed  both  the  ladies. 

"  Iss,  indeed,"  James  coniinued,  gatheriiiir  h's  hands  to. 
gether  under  the  pkirt  cf  his  coat,  and  renewing  his  nod  of 
eniiihatic  a-sertion, 

'■'  And  is  he  below,  James  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Byrne. 

"  Oh,  below  !  what  beloAv,  ma'am  ?"  said  James,  his 
head  recoiling  with  a  tone  and  action  of  remon^^tr.mce  and 
astonishment — "  Ts  it  into  the  house  he'd  come?  No,  in- 
deed. But  I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  added,  walking  a  fjw 
paces  fin  ther  into  the  centre  of  the  room,  plncing  his  cauhoge 
(old  hat)  upon  a  chair,  looking  fixedly  in  the  eyes  of  his 
auditors,  and  throwing  his  disencumbered  arms  out  from 
his  shoulders,  a'*  if  preparing  for  a  regular  oration.  "  Here's 
the  way  it  was.  Goen  to  the  ford,  over,  I  was,  thismornrn. 
to  water  the  little  filly-foal,  the  same  that  Miss  Lilly  t'leie 
used  to  be  riden,  wliin  she'd  be  along  with  him  (and  a 
good  warrant  you  had  at  it,  too,  miss,"  lie  interpolated  by 
way  of  parenthesis,  while  he  grinned  at  Lilly),  an'  I 
trotten  along,  thinken  o'  nothen,  along  the  road,  whin  all 
of  a  suddent,  I  felt  a  great  change  conicn  in  the  basfe 
under  me.  Oh,  sarrow  word  of  a  lie  I'm  tellen.  Lord 
save  us!  says  I,  is  it  any  tlien  bad  that's  there?  and 
hardly  the  ^vord  was  out  o'  me  mouth,  whin  'James!'  sa^s 
he,  above  upi^n  the  hedge.  Oh,  it's  fact  '  James  !'  says  he, 
on  the  hedge.  Lnrd  between  us  and  harm,  says  I, 
•who  is  it  that's  callen  me?  s-ys  I.  'Don't  you  know  me, 
James?'  s;iys  he  auain  ;  Mr.  Kumba,  indeed,  he  did.  Aw 
tliin,  sar,  says  I,  is  that  y<'.u?  '  'Ti-^,  indeed,  James,'  says 
he.  So  Me  stopped  a  miiiUte,  looken  at  one  another.  Why 
thin,  it's  a  long  while  ^ince  I  seen  you.  iiow,  sir,  s:iys  I. 
He  made  me  no  answer  to  that,  bat  after  a  while,  'James, 
says  he,  '  I'm  sorry  for  your  trouble*  westwards.'  Hea- 
ven's will  be  done,  sir,  says  1,  you  needn't  tell  me  that, 

•A  favourite  phrape  of  ccrddcr.ce  ar.ong  ilie  leasa/itn,  tbe 
loss  of  any  Oiembtr  of  a  family. 


THE     COINER.  445 

an'  sure  'hras  true  for  me,  ma'am — for« — "looking  all 
round  the  room  for  an  illustration — "  see,  'twas  as  pale  a^ 
this  table  cloth,  his  face  was — and  his  eyes  sniik  in  his 
head,  within,  an'  his  cheeks  all  gone,  inlirely.  He  looked, 
you'd  think,  as  if  he  wasn't  there  at  all,  you'd  think,  a'mort. 
Not  but,"  he  added,  on  meeting  Lilly's  eye — "  he's  greatly 
improved  from  what  he  was,  I'm  told,  and  thriving  again 
very  fast,  but  still  an'  all  'twould  make  the  stones  weep  to 
look  at  him.  '  Well,  James,  isn't  it  greatly  they  wouldn't 
let  me  come  a  near  'em,  at  all,'  says  he,  '  an'  my  heart 
bleeden  to  hear  about  it.'  He  did,  indeed,  miss.  Sir, 
says  I,  sarious,  this  way,  I  never  spake  o'  the  famaly,  says 
I,  but  there  never  was  a  smoke  without  a  fire  yet,  an'  beg- 
ging your  pardon,  says  I,  may  be,  if  you  behaved  honester 
(i.e.  more  miklly)  wliin  you  were  there,  you'd  have  the 
liberty  o'  the  place  to-day,  says  I,  the  same  as  ever.  '  Why, 
then,  I  believe  it's  true /o?-  you,  James,'  says  he,  and  then 
he  continued  moven  unaisy  about  tor  a  feow  minutes,  like 
une  that  would  have  sometheu  on  his  mind,  you'd  think  ; 
an'  at  last,  '  James,'  says  he,  'would  you  do  me  a  favour 
now,  an'  I'll  do  as  much  for  you  another  time,'  says  lie. 
If  you  never  did  anything  fur  nx,  sir,  says  I,  I'll  do 
it  and  welcome,  and  I  would  too,  ma'am.  With  that, 
he  put  it  into  my  hand  —  the  letter — he  did,  and  says  he, 
'  don't  let  your  young  missiz  see  you  given  of  it,  James, 
says  he — 'an'  I'll  wait  here,'  says  he,  '  until  such  lime  as 
you  bring  me  an  answer,  and  don't  delay  it,  James,  if  you 
can,  for  my  heart  is  witliin  it,'  says  he.  He  did  indeed. 
Signs  on,  see  the  state  I'm  in,  racen  hether  wit  it,"  he  c^-'i- 
tlnued,  pressing  his  open  hand  upon  his  bi'ow,  and  wipmg 
away  some  drops  of  perspiration,  "  an'  there  he  is,  waiting 
this  way,  over,  in  the  sally-grove,  seeing  woidd  i.e  get  a 
favourable  answer  to  ti)e  petition."  And  having  graced 
his  peroration  «ith  a  suitable  ges-ture,  James  took  up  his 
hat  again,  and  remained  jilent,  hoking  alternately  into  the 
eyes  of  both  his  auditors,  as  if  to  observe  the  effect  of  his 
narrative. 


446  SUIL   DHUV, 

"He  has  talcen  the  proper  course,  at  all  events,"  said 
the  old  lady,  showing  the  superscription.  To  Mrs.  Byrne, 
Druniscanion,  to  her  daughter. 

Lilly  di'd  not  answer,  but  her  glowing  cheek  and  bright- 
ening eye  showed  that  her  mother's  observation  was  not 
lost  upon  her. 

"  Am  I  to  wait  for  the  commands  below,  ma'am  ?"  said 
James — an  innate  sense  of  delicacy  (a  quality  which  even 
the  humblest  of  the  Irish  possesses  to  a  great  degree,  in 
common  with  the  people  of  strong  feelings)  informing  him 
that,  although  they  had  forgotten  his  presence,  it  could  not 
but  be  an  incumbrance  at  the  |)resent  moment. 

"You  may,  James,"  said  Mrs.  Byrne,  "but  don't  be 
out  o'  the  way." 

"  Is  it  /  be  out  o'  the  wa}',  ma'am  !"  James  murmured 
in  surprise  as  he  left  the  room. 

They  proceeded  to  examine  the  contents  of  the  letter. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Pisano. — Madam,  here  is  a  letter  from  my  lord. 

Imogen. — Who  '\  Thy  lord  1  that  is  my  lord — 
O  learned  indeed  were  that  astronomer 
Tfiat  knew  the  stars  as  I  his  character, 
He'd  lay  the  future  open. 

Cymbclinc. 

It  is  most  extraordinary  to  observe  how  completely,  how 
ntterlv,  as  age  grows  upon  us,  we  lose  sight  of  all  the  les- 
ser feelings  and  sympathies  of  our  youth — how  perfectly 
incapable  we  become  of  entering  into  all  the  fineries  of  our 
early  condition  of  mind  and  heart,  when  re-acted  in  our 
presence  by  those  to  wliom  they  have  descended.  With  all 
Lilly's  patience,  she  could  not  help  wondering  at  thecom- 
jiaratively  uninterested  way  in  which  her  mother  proceeded 


J 


THE    COINER.  447 

to  wipe  her  spectacles,  drive  Ler  old  friend  the  tortoife-sliell 
cat  fioni  her  knee,  exaniine  the  seal,  and  smile  at  the  de- 
vice and  motto,  a  crucihle,  with  "swift  yet  sure"  beneath, 
the  popular  allnsion  of  which  she  readilj-  understood,  before 
she  gratified  the  longing  ears  and  evfs  of  Lilly  with  a  dis- 
closure of  the  contents.  Kuniba  sjioke  truly  when  he  told 
James  that  his  heart  was  in  it — and  certainly,  if  mere 
words  o^ight  to  have  made  way  with  the  widow  and  her 
child,  the  appejU  which  it  contained  would  not  have  been 
unsuccessful. 

"I  only  wish,  my  dear  Mrs.  Byrne,"  he  continued, 
after  having  made  his  object  known  in  a  very  s^-nsible  and 
yet  feeling  manner,  "  I  only  wish  that  you  vvoKld  give  me 
an  o]iportunity  of  showing  you  that  the  great  impropriety 
of  conduct  (to  say  the  least  of  it)  of  wliich  I  vvas  guilty  in 
your  presence,  was  not  the  eflect  of  habitual  but  acciden- 
tal ill-temper.  It  was  an  occasion  which  I  cannot  think 
on  without  grief  and  humiliation  ;  but  when  you  agrf^e 
with  me  in  repreliending  it,  do  not  forget,  my  dear  mad- 
am, I  beseech  you,  the  sutleiings  which  it  has  already 
brought  upon  me. 

"  To  your  feelings,  as  a  mother,  I  appeal  for  some  indi- 
cation of  wha.t  those  suflerings  must  have  been.  Consider 
how  you  would  have  felt,  if  any  circumstances  had  excluded 
you  from  the  sick  chamber  and  the  bedsidp  of  vour  daughter, 
your  only  child,  whom  vou  loved  so  tenderly,  when  she  lay 
in  a  dangerous  illness — and  think  whether  in  the  absolute 
necessity  of  those  circumstances,  and  their  being  unmerited 
by  any  act  of  yours,  would  be  sufficient  to  reconcile  you  to 
the  privation.  If  not,  my  dear  madam,  what  must  have 
been  the  torture  of  my  heart,  when  I  had  to  endure  a  simi- 
lar banishment,  and  had  not  even  that  ineffectual  resource 
of  a  secure  conscience  to  comfort  my  heart — when  I  heard, 
hour  after  hour,  of  some  new  grief  some  new  calamity  be- 
falling her  in  whose  happiness  all  mine  was  centered  ;  and 
yet  could  not  but  acknowledge  that  you   were  all  acting 


448  SCIL   DHUV, 

right  in  shutting  me  out  from  hor  presence,  and  that  the  suf 
fering  which  I  deplored,  and  the  agony  which  I  felt,  was 
all  the  work  of  my  own  hands — that  I  had  been  the  cause 
of  ray  own  rejection  from  the  paradise  I  sought — the  cause 
of  my  poor,  gentle,  but  justly  indignant  Lilly's  illness — of 

your  disf)levasure — of Oh,  madam,  even  while  I  write, 

the  stinging  of  my  own  heart  tells  me  that  I  have  done  toe 
much,  and  that  I  ought  not  to  be  heard. 

"  Nevertheless,  I  send  the  letter  as  I  have  written  it. 
If  I  should  be  still  doomed  to  sutler  for  that  unhappy  mor- 
ning, however  dreadful  my  life  may  become  to  me,  be  as- 
sured that  never  even  in  thought  will  I  entertain  the  suspi- 
cion that  I  have  any  thing  to  blame  but  my  own  unprovoked 
and  wanton  rudeness  for  my  misery. 

»  "  Robert  Kumba." 

Mrs.  Bvrne  slowly  folded  the  letter,  and  remained, 
meditating  for  a  moment,  while  she  endeavoured  to  make 
the  bowl  of  a  tea-spoon  tioat  in  her  cup. 

Lilly,  whose  countenance  had  changed  almost  as  many 
times  as  there  were  sentences  in  the  letter,  during  its  peru- 
sal, remained  anxiously  expecting  the  speech  of  her  mother. 
She  had,  during  the  earlv  part,  manifested  a  degree  of 
warmth  and  approbation  (in  her  look  and  manner  only,) 
which,  had  Kumba  beheld  her  at  the  moment,  would  have 
put  him  in  tine  spirits,  but  before  her  mother  stopped  read- 
ing, the  expression  of  her  face  bad  altered.  Tlie  tears, 
which  his  allusion  to  her  own  illness  had  brought  into 
her  eyes,  were  checked  ujton  the  lids,  the  glow  on  her  cheek 
became  fainter,  the  panting  hope  that  struggled  in  her  bo- 
som appeared  to  subside,  and  a  slight  degree  of  chagrin  and 
of  disappointment  was  manifest  upon  her  brow  and  lip. 

"  It  is  a  very  nice  letter,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Byrne,  "  but 
it  does  not  contain  all  that  we  want  to  know.  I  believe 
we  always  gave  him  cn^dit  fur  feeling — but  why  does  he 
not  mention  anything  of  the  farm  all  this  wiiiie  V 


-  ] 


TTIE  COINER.  449 

"  The  rpason  apppars  to  bo,  mother,  that  he  has  mis- 
Uikm  nvr  motives  altogether.  Surely  neither  yon  r.or  I. 
nor  any  body  else,  eve  rcoulcl  have  intended  to  make  that 
unfortunate  fit  of  passion  a  cause  for  utter  hanishvient,  as 
he  calls  it.  My  poor  dead  father  Mas  rot  so  inveterate. 
He  even  attributed  a  great  portion  of  the  blame  on  that 
morning  to  himself." 

"Ah,  my  dear,  your  poor  father  was  a  great  deal  too 
forgiving.  Heaven  forgive  me  for  saying  so — I  mean  for 
his  own  worldly  interest? ;  but  I  thank  Heaven  he  was  so, 
for  if  it  were  otherwise  he  could  not  have  hoped  for  the  re- 
ward that,  I  trust,  he  is  now  enjoying." 

"  Neither  ong' t  Robert  to  suppose  that  he  has  had  all 
the  sviflf"  rino-  to  himself,"  said  Lilly,  while  she  strove  to 
keep  herself  from  crying. 

"You  are  very  ri,i;ht,  my  love,"  replied  Mrs.  Byrne, 
turning  emphaficaiiy  towanls  her,  "  and  that  is  very  selfish 
of  him,  to  say  so,  certainly." 

Lilly  meant  only  the  internal  suffering  to  both,  conse- 
puent  on  their  separation  ;  but  the  matter-of-fact  old  lady 
took  it  fur  granted  that  so  strong  a  word  would  only  be 
used  with  application  to  the  physical  calamities  of  all  parties, 
and  Lilly  was  too  timid  and  delicate  to  explain — so  that 
the  undeserved  censure  was  suffered  to  remain  upon  poor 
Kuiv.ba's  shoulders. 

These  are  the  mistakes  that  set  the  world  by  the  ears. 

After  some  farther  conversation,  it  was  ajrreed  that  Mrs. 
Byrne  should  answer  Robert's  letter,  or  j^etition,  as  James 
called  it — by  undeceiving  him  with  respect  to  the  cause  of 
his  exile — laying  down  the  condition  of  his  recall,  which 
was  to  be  such  an  improvement  in  the  circumstances  of  his 
property  and  his  conduct  as  would  suffice  to  justify  a  rea- 
sonable hope  of  his  perseverence  ;  and,  finally,  a  friendly 
exhortation  to  him,  that  he  would  make  an  exertion  to  re- 
store to  all  as  much  as  yet  remained  on  earth  of  the  peace 
which  tuey  had  lost." 


450  suiL  t>aiTv, 

"  j\fofLcr !"  said  Mi.^s  Byrnf^,  as  she  wa-s  about  to  leave 
the  room — "  jou  will  tell  him  I  had  not  furgottea  him/' 
And  liaving  with  diihculty  restrained  herself  while  she 
uttered  tlie  sentence,  she  hurried  away  to  reheve  her  heart 
in  the  solitude  of  her  OAvn  apurtinent. 

By  another  of  those  contre-tems,  which,  however  slight 
in  titemselves,  yet  involve  so  deep  and  very  often  tragical 
consequences  in  the  histoiy  of  the  human  heart,  it  un- 
fortunately happened,  that  Mrs.  Byrne  (who,  as  my  readers 
may  before  now  have  conjectured,  was  not  one  of  those 
persons  who  can  think  of  one  thing  and  attend  to  another 
at  the  same  time)  was,  at  the  very  moment  when  Lilly 
spoke,  absorbed  in  tlie  consideration  whether  she  should 
address  thy  letter  "My  Dear  Sir,"  or  "  My  Dear  Robert," 
and  never  heard,  and,  consequently,  never  gave  Lilly's  re- 
membrance. Tiie  letter  wanted  it  too — (which  was  worse 
and  worse) — for  the  precise,  g-ood-natured  lady  took  so 
much  pains  to  communicate  every  thing  in  so  very  proper 
terms,  in  so  neat  a  hand,  and  with  so  many  ahnost  invisible 
era'^nres — nicely  polished  over  with  the  finger  nail  (so  as 
that  the  ink  should  not  sink) — and  other  pretty  precautions, 
that  poor  Kumha,  when  he  got  it,  felt  as  if  he  had  walked 
nnawares  under  a  waterfall. 

He  might,  perhaps,  have  yet  received  enough  of  encou- 
ragement to  stimulate  him  to  some  exertion,  if  he  had 
known  how  often  Lilly  Avcpt  upon  her  mother's  neck  in  the 
course  of  that  and  the  following  day.  But  there  was 
nothing  to  alleviate  the  coldness  of  the  letter  which  indeed 
would  have  been  perceptible  to  a  person  composed  of  mudi 
less  combustible  and  enthusiastic  materials  than  himself. 
The  effect  which  it  did  produce  on  him  we  have  al;-eady 
seen,  and  the  accounts  which  reached  the  inmates  of  Drum- 
scanlon  of  his  excesses,  contributed  more  effectually  than 
all  she  had  before  endured,  to  shatter  the  feeble  remains 
of  Lilly's  constitution,  render  her  more  assiduous  In  &11 
her  duties,  more   silent,   more  resigned,  more  woe-worn 


THE    COINER,  451 

more  gentle  and  timid,  more  smiling,  more  cheerful,  and 
broken-hearted.* 

One  of  the  pi'incipal  of  these  hist  was  a  cerem^Dny  wliich 
the  innovations  of  modern  custom  has  restiicted  altogether 
to  the  humble  classes  of  Irish  life.  Every  mornino-,  before 
ai-y  part  of  her  household  afiairs  were  permitted  to  obtrude 
themselves  upon  her  attention,  she  walked  to  an  old  church, 
about  a  "  small  mile"  from  her  own  residence,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  "  paying  a  round"  that  is  to  saj',  offering  up,  on 
her  knees,  a  few  prayers  for  the  rei)ose  of  the  spirit  of  him 
who  was  sleeping  beneath  the  mound,  of  soliciting  an  in- 
crease of  strength  to  abide  by  the  resolution  she  hadlbrmed, 
and  commemorating  the  sacrilice  she  had  made  of  her  own 
feelings  and  hai^piness  to  his  dying  wishes.  An  accident, 
which  occurred  during  one  of  those  mornino-  excursions 
occasioned  the  conversation  which  took  place  between 
Kiiinba  and  the  Suil  JJhuv  on  their  first  introduction  to 
tlie  reader. 

Lilly  had  been,  a  few  mornings  previous  to  the  day  on 
which  the  old  Palatine  arrived  at  the  inn  upon  the  moun- 
tains, kneeling,  as  usual,  in  the  morning  sunshine  at  the 
foot  of  her  father's  grave,  her  hands  clasped,  and  her  head 
bowed  down  in  pious  reverence,  when  she  was  startled  by 
hearing  the  ivy  rustle  upon  the  low  and  ruined  wall 
beside  her.  Raising  her  eyes  quickly,  and  in  some  alarm, 
she  beheld  the  face  of  a  man,  whom  she  recoo-nised  as  an 
occasional  labourer  of  her  father's,  staring  in  upon  her 
devotions  with  some  expression  of  surprise  and  compas- 
sion. 

"  Whisht !    whisht,  Miss !"    he  exclaimed,  waving   his 

*  The  last  word  may  startle  many  of  those  readers  who  (in  the 
lashi.Hi  at  present)  look  for  good  sense  and  truth  in  novels— more 
especially  us  one  ot  tlie  most  popular  modern  writers  of  this  class  has 
piOiiou  eed  the  phrase  a  vulgar  error.  He  is  mistaken,  hoAvever. 
Dr.  J^iine,  among  the  many  discoveries  relative  to  this  delicate  organ 
with  which  he  has  enlightened  the  world,  has  proved  that  a  broken 
lieart  may  be,  and  has  been,  a  mechauical  effect' of  grief. 


452  SUIL    DHCV, 

hand  to  her,  as  if  to  signify  that  she  snould  not  regard  his 
Dresence. 

"  How  did  you  know  that  I  was  here,  Jerry  ?  Were 
you  sent  for  me  ?"  said  Lilly,  rising  from  her  knees. 

"  O  no.  Miss — not  I — but — "  observing  her  eyes  red 
from  wee|)ing — "  you  oughtn't  to  do  that  at  all,  Miss.  He 
wouldn't  like  it." 

"  Why  so  ?" 

"  Tisn't  good,  Miss.  I  knew  meself  of  a  time,  a  lone 
woman,  a  widow,  that  used  to  be  goen  that  way  every  day 
to  cry  over  her  son  that  was  buried  in  the  church-yard — 
an'  at  last,  you  see,  one  day  as  she  was  kneeling  that  way, 
an'  claspen  her  hands,  and  ochoimng  over  the  grave,  slie 
bard  somethen  above  her,  upon  the  wall,  as  it  might  be  this 
way  as  I  am  now — and  sure,  what  should  be  there  but 
himself.  'Ah  then,  darlen  V  says  she,  'is  tliat  you  Mike? 
Lord  save  us!'  'E'then  it  is  so,  mother,'  says  lie,  'and 
don't  do  that  any  more,'  says  he.  '  Oh  then,  what  ibr, 
shouldn't  I  cry  over  you,  Mike,  darlen  ?'  says  she,  luokcn 
at  him.  '  No,  don't,  mother,'  says  he,  '  for  its  well  I  suf- 
fered to  you  for  all  you  cried  ahvady.  Look  liere  !'  sajs 
he,  liften  up  the  winden-sheet  that  was  upon  him,  and 
showen  her  his  side  all  full  of  holes.*  '  I'here's  one  of 
them,'  says  he,  '  for  every  tear  you  shed  for  me,'  says  he, 
'  and  don't  do  it  any  more  ujjon  me,  mother,'  says  he.  '  No, 
I  won't  indeed,  Mike,'  says  the  poor  woman,  dryen  lier 
eyes  at  once.  'Don't  thin,'  says  he  agen,  an'  he  vanished. 
An'  she  didn't  either." 

"  Well,  I  thank  you  for  the  advice,  Jerry,  but  I  will 
thank  you  still  more,  if  you  will  not  say  a  word  of  your 
having  seen  me  liere,  to  any  body." 

"  Is  it  I  say  a  word  of  it  ?"  said  Jerry  O'Gilvy,  indig- 
nantly. 

He  did  say  a  word  of  it  however,  and  two  words ;  and 

*  Tbis  is  a  common  superstition  ficrjucntly  used  in  the  hours  oi 
condolence. 


THE    COIXER.  453 

this  circumstance  it  was  that  iinlucod  Suil  Dnuv  to  sugo-est 
to  his  du)ie,  Kiiniba,  tlie  ick^a  of  meeting  Lilly  at  the  jilace 
to  which  Jerry  would  conduct  him,  a  grove  lying  on  ht-r 
road  home  from  the  church-yard  ;  t!ie  latter  being  strictly 
cautioned  by  the  Coiner  not  to  make  tlie  young  man  aware 
of  the  object  of  her  morning  walk,  for  lie  liad  jienetration 
enough  to  know  that  Kumba's  feeling,  if  not  his  [irinciple, 
would  never  permit  him  to  disturb  her  on  such  a  mis.-iun^ 
— indeed  we  might  say  his  common  sense,  for,  however 
much  he  tiusted  to  the  effect  which  he  might  be  enabled 
to  produce  on  Lilly's  resolution  in  a  personal  interview,  he 
could  expect,  nothing  less,  than  an  indignant  and  final  le- 
pulse  to  such  an  attempt  as  the  present.  Neither  would 
it  have  answered  the  views  of  Suil  Dhuv  that  they  should 
meet,  or  that  Kumba  should  in  any  way  succeed  in  his 
wishes.  It  was  enough  fur  him  to  have  acquired  an  ad- 
ditional influence  over  the  mind  of  the  latter,  by  niaking 
the  ]iroposition — he  was  not  by  any  means  so  anxious 
as  his  friend  imagined,  that  it  should  proceed  to  a  satis- 
factory accomplishment.  This,  however,  was  sutficiently 
provided  against,  by  a  slight  circumstance  which  took 
jilace  the  very  evening  before.  An  anonymus  note  di- 
rected to  Miss.  Byrne,  and  informing  her  in  two  lines  of 
Kumba's  design,  which  was  left  at  iJrumscanlon,  not  only 
tilled  her  with  indignation  but  effectually  confined  her 
to  the  house,  while  Kumba  and  his  chajseron  Jerry  heat 
about  the  grove  until  noon,  in  vain.  'J'he  note  was  left 
at  the  kitchen  dc)or,  by  a  thin,  sharp  faced,  and  bare 
footed  lad,  who  neither  made  nor  answered  inquiries,  and 
of  wliose  mission  James  could  collect  no  farther  indication 
than  that  he  spoke  in  a  \ii\\i-Eiiglified  way  about  "  dis,  an 
dat,  and  de  oder  ting." 

Thus  circumstances  stood  at  Drumscanlon,  on  the  day 
preceding  that  which  was  destined  to  involve,  in  so  singu- 
lar a  corijecture,  the  fortunes  of  so  many  characters  in  out 
history. 


454  SUIL  DHUV, 


CHAPTER  XJII. 

BraianHc 'My  daughter,  0  my  daa;;h*er 

Spva!o9S. — Dead  ? 
Brabati'.io. — To  me. 
She  is  stolen  from  me  ! — 

Othello. 

The  day  following  was  (as  the  readpr  has  already  been  made 
awaiYy  the  Elia-na-Shaun,  or  the  Eve  of  St.  John's-day.  a 
festival  which  is  celebrated  iu  Ireland  with  peculiar  devotion. 
The  people  have  a  mimber  of  traditions  ciinvnt  among  them, 
relative  to  t!ie  origin  of  many  of  the  ceremonies  peculiar  to 
this  vigil  (one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  vvhicli  latter  is,  the 
lightiug  up  of  fires  on  the  mountains,  and  indeed  ia  all  parts 
of  the  countiy  about  even-fall — tiie  appearance  of  which  on 
this  night  occasioned  so  much  terror  to  the  Coiner).  It  is 
believed  by  some  that  the  ceremony  is  riothiug  more  than  a 
reiic  of  the  idolatrous  worship  of  the  aboiigines  of  the  s  mII 
— while  a  greater  number  of  the  peasantry  suppose  that  they 
commemorate  by  those  nocturnal  illuminations,  a  general 
massacre  of  the  ancient  enemies  of  the  land,  the  unfortunate 
Danes,  wiio  were  (as  the  cottage  hi>torians  assert)  all  slaagh- 
tered  one  tine  summer  evening  (the  signal  for  the  general  up- 
rising of  the  ojjpressed  natives  being  a  ninnber  of  b  'aeon 
fires,  lighted  on  every  hill,  hillock,  mount  and  mountain 
thionnhotit  the  coun  ry) — -and  who  have  1  ft  no  other  in  ■- 
morial  of  their  deaily  purchased  conipiot  in  this  still  un- 
subdued, though  often  conquered  island — than  the  ruined 
Z/s/i,  or  fort,  through  whose  woody  covering  the  night  wind 
sighs  above  their  bones — or  the  moulder.d  and  almost  rust- 
eaten  coin  that  is  thrown  up  by  the  bidder  or  (juarrier  in 
the  lonely  regions  of  the  inland — to  furnish  matter  of  spe- 
3niaiion  to  some  pantalooned  and  spectacled  antiquarian  ot 
the  P».  I.  A, — or  Dublin  Society. 

The  fires  had  already  beca  lighted  on  the  fields  adjacent 


TnE  coixEK.  455 

to  Dmmppanlon,  when  Lilly  Byrne,  hnvin,^  dlscbargcil,  as 
•was  her  never-failing  custom,  all  her  hnusehokl  duties  to 
the  very  letter — given  the  servants  their  diuner — cut  out 
tJie  slim-cake  for  the  evening — set  some  milk  in  a  saucer 
for  the  cat — counted  all  the  linen  into  the  press — seen  the 
ducks,  hens,  and  chickens  fed — the  cows  milked — the  dairy 
set  in  order — the  garden-gate  locked — the  cutter  printed — 
the  mouse-traps  baited — and  the  dough  set  by  the  tire — 
■when  Lilly  Byrne,  having  discliarged,  we  say,  all  those 
duties,  sat  in  her  chamber  making  her  little  preparations  with 
an  aching  heart,  at  her  toilet,  to  perform  a  clieerl'ul  part 
among  a  small  family  tea-party,  who  were  invited  to  spend 
the  evening  at  Drumscanlon. 

Poor  Lilly's  toilet  was  not  now  a  matter  of  very  exces- 
sive labour  or  concern  to  her.  She  was  careful  to  omit  no- 
thing in  the  adjustment  of  her  dress  (a  simple  suit  of  mourn- 
ing) which  the  general  custom  of  the  time  rendered  a-bso- 
lutely  necessary  to  prevent  the  appearance  of  affectation  or 
a  disrespectful  singularity  ;  but  no  adornment  that  a  posi- 
tive feeling  of  duty  did  not  point  out  to  her,  was  any  longer 
used.  Human  motive  Avas  now  fatally  quelled  within  her 
besom,  and  she  no  longer  felt  those  l.ttle  struggles  between 
her  love  for  things  "  lawful  though  dangerous,"  and  her  fears 
of  secret  vanity,  which  had  given  rise  to  nearly  all  the  trials 
ot  her  giilish  virtue,  when  there  was  a  reasin  why  she 
shordd  look  to  pood  advantage  in  other  eyes  than  her  own. 
She  rejected,  therefore,  the  fine  jet  necklace  whicii  her 
mother  had  left  upon  her  table,  and  contented  herself  with 
the  plain  silk  libbon  and  black  cross  which  lay  near  it,  iu 
one  of  the  little  recesses  of  her  dressing-box. 

In  loitering  among  the  now  neglected  trinkets  which 
■were  thrown  together  in  the  casket,  she  removed  a  piece  ot 
paper,  folded,  and  marked  on  the  outside  in  her  own  hand- 
writing (as  if  by  the  way  of  index  to  the  contents),  with 
the  initials  B.  K.  Those  contents  were  a  song  adapted  by 
her  lover  to  one  of  the  old  ballad  airs  of  the  counti-y,  which 


45G  SUIL  DHITV, 

Lilly  had  often  sung  to  her  harpsichord  (when  the  young 
gentleman  was  not  present,  for  she  was  far  too  scrupulous 
to  flatter  his  vanity  at  any  time  by  lettini;'  him  hear  how 
she  honoured  it) — and  which,  as  Lilly  did  thiuk  it  worth 
singing,  we  shall  venture  to  trauscribe  : — 

THE  WiiNDEKER'S  RETURN. 

I. 

I've  come  unto  my  home  again  and  fiad  myseif  alone 

Til-  friends  I  left  in  quiet  tliere  are  perislied  all  and  gone. 
My  father's  house  is  teuantless— my  early  loves  lie  low! 
But  one  remains  of  all  that  made  my  youthful  spirit  glow! 
Wy  love  lies  by  the  l;lushiug  VVest.  drest  in  a  robe  of  green, 
And  pleasant  waters  sing  to  her  and  know  her  for  their  qiice:i : 
The  wild  winds  fan  her  lace,  that  o'er  the  distant  billows  coaid — 
She  is  my  last  remaining  love — my  own — my  island  home. 

II. 
I  know  I've  not  the  cunning  got  to  tell  the  love  I  feel, 
And  few  give  timid  truth  the  faith  they  yield  to  seeming  zeal. 
1  he  friends  who  loved  me,  thouglit  me  cold,  and  fell  off  one  by  one 
And  leit  me  in  my  solitude  to  live  and  love  alone. 
But  each  pleasant  grove  of  thine,  my  love,  and  stream,  my  fervjiil 

know — •  • 
For  there  is  no  distrusting  glance  to  meet  and  check  its  flow — 
To  every  dell  I  freely  tell  my  thoughts,  where'er  I  roam, 
How  dear  tliou  art  to  tliis  lorn  heart,  my  own — my  island  homei 

iir. 
And  when  I  lift  my  vnice  and  sing  unto  thy  silent  shades, 
And  echo  wakens  merrily  in  all  thy  drowsy  glades, 
There's  not  a  rill — a  vale — a  hill — a  wild  wood  or  still  grove, 
But  gives  again  the  burning  strain,  and  j'iekls  me  love  for  love. 
Oh,  1  have  seen  the  maiden  of  my  bosom  pine  and  die — 
And  I  have  seen  my  bosom  friend  look  on  me  doubtingly — 
And  long — U  long— have  all  my  young  atlections  found  a  tomb — 
Yet  thou  art  all  in  all  to  me,  my  own — my  island  home  1 


And  now  I  bring  a  wearj'  thing — a  withered  heart  to  thee-.- 
To  lay  me  down  upon  thj'  breast  and  die  there  quietly. 
I've  wandered  o'er — O,  many  a  shore,  to  die  this  death  at  last — 
Aad  uiy  soul  is  glad — its  wish  is  gained,  and  all  my  toils  are  past. 


THE  COINEB.  "^^i 

Oh,  talvC  me  to  thy  bosom  then,  and  let  the  spot  of  earth 
Receive  the  wanderer  to  his  rest,  that  gave  the  wanderer  birth — 
And  tlie  stream,  beside  whose  gentle  tide  a  child  I  loved  to  roam — 
Now  pour  its  wave  along  my  grave,  my  narrow  island  home ! 

The  recollection  of  the  circumstances  under  which  Kumba 
had  placed  these  verses  in  her  hand,  threw  Lilly  into  a 
train  of  feeling  which  would  have  been  dangerous  to  her  re- 
solution of  meeting  her  mother's  friends  with  a  gay  spirit 
becoming  the  occasion — had  not  her  meditations  been  in- 
terrupted b}'  the  slight  pressure  of  that  mother's  hand  upon 
her  neck,  as  she  leaned  forward  in  her  chair. 

"  Well,  Lilly,  my  love,  will  you  not  come  down  ?  The 
company  are  waiting,  and  Mrs.  Hasset  has  been  askiiig  for 
you  no  less  than  three  times.  What !  you  have  been  cry- 
ing again,  I  declare  !  Well,  then !  0  then,  to  be  sure, 
now,  Lilly !" 

"Ah,  mother,  do  not  blame  me.  It  is  not  for  the  Robert 
Kumba  that  is  now  wholly  abandoned  to  low  courses,  I 
Aveep,  but  for  liim  who  was  so  kind,  so  generous,  so  amia- 
ble, so  feeling !  Do  not  think  that  any  degree  either  of 
hope  or  of  discontent  mingles  with  my  regret.  I  look  upon 
myself,  on  the  contrary,  as  one  who  has  been  providen- 
tially delivered  from  a  veiled  and  certain  danger.  Neither," 
she  added,  as  she  observed  her  mother's  eyes  glisten  and 
fill,  "  neither  have  I  given  up  all  hope  even  of  this  world's 
happiness.  Can  it  be  criniinil,  mother,  in  me  to  suffer 
such  a  hope  to  mingle  with  those  which  are  fixed  where 
they  cannot  change  or  darken  ?  Was  it  criminal  in  me, 
just  now,  when  I  knelt  bi;fore  the  Almighty,  to  offer  up  a 
tear  and  a  prayer  tor  hivi ;  and  to  indulge  the  belief  (illu- 
sive perhaps)  that  even  at  that  moment  my  sorrow  might 
have  found  its  way  to  the  throne  of  Heaven,  and  that  some 
single  pang,  some  misfortune,  some  threatened  danger,  might 
have  been  spared  to  my  once-loved  friend  in  mercy  to  my 
agony  ?" 

The  reader,  who  has  accompanied  Kumba  through  the 
20 


458  SUIL  DHUV, 

ev(  iits  of  tliis  day,  might  perhaps  have  tolj  Lilly  a  secret 
oil  this  subject. 

"  i  will  own,  mother,"  she  continuecl,  after  a  pause, 
while  the  afflicted  old  lady  endeavoured  by  caresses  and 
entreaties  to  console  her,  "that  it  cost  me  some  siruggles, 
and  was  a  long  wliile  before  I  brought  myself  to  make  tlie 
sacrifice  of  myself  entirely  thus — and  if  I  do  not  deceive 
my  own  heart — if  indeed  it  is  made,  I  have  no  merit  iu 
it — for  it  seems  to  me  to  be  only  the  pressure  of  repeated 
disaiipuintments  iu  my  fondest  Avishcs,  that  has  at  last  con- 
quered my  obstinate  will.  You  think  me  melancholy,  now, 
mother,"  she  added,  smiling  with  leal  clieerfuluess,  as  she 
looked  into  tiie  eyes  of  her  jjaient,  "but  indeed  I  am  not. 
I  do  not,"  i-he  continued,  smihng  yet  mure  gaily,  and  he- 
siiating  a  little,  while  she  laid  her  finger  un  a  boi rowed 
volume  of  the  letters  of  a  cdebiated  and  titled  authoress, 
which  were  then  creating  a  general  sensa  ion  in  EiigLnd, 
(a  sensation  that  time  has  little  diminished) — "  I  do  not, 
at  present  at  least,  f  el  that  mortilication  which  ihis  lady 
expresses  at  growing  wiier  every  day  and  seein;;,  like  Solo- 
mon, the  vanity  of  all  temporal  concerns.  And  is  not  that 
a  great  deal  ?  Come,  moiher,  you  shall  see  that  I  can  be 
happy  in  spite  ot  my  own  peevish  wishe.-^,"  and  passing 
her  handki  rchief  over  iier  thin,  white,  and  wasted,  but  light 
andphasant  countenanee,  she  paused  one  moment  with 
cla>ped  hands  0:1  the  tinv-hold  ot  the  door,  and  niuved  her 
li|S  as  if  to  solicit  ari  increase  of  contentment  and  resigna- 
tion ;  after  which  she  breathed  one  sliort  sigh  as  a  last  tri- 
bute to  the  dominion  of  melancholy  for  the  evening,  and 
quietly  followed  her  motiier. 

Oue  very  brief  but  painful  struggle  only  she  had  to  en- 
dure, when  first  the  sounds  of  meniraent  broke  upon  her 
now  unaccustomed  car.  It  was  the  first  time  that  any 
number  of  frierids  (lor  relatives  only,  and  those  a  few,  were 
invited)  had  met  in  that  apartment  since  those  two  dear 
ones  had  been  lost  to  tnc  cii^cle.     Anotlier  vigorous  exer- 


iJ 


THE  COIXER.  459 

tion,  however,  enabled  our  little  heroine  to  recover  her  self 
possession. 

Tliere  are  few  trials  which  the  resiajned  spirit  has  to  en- 
counter, more  distressing  than  to  find  its  fortitude  mistaken 
for  real,  positive  happiness.  Those  who  feel  their  consti- 
tution sapped  and  shakon  by  some  chronic  disease,  know 
how  dreary  a  thing  it  is  to  be  congratulated  by  a  friend  on 
their  good  looks — clapped  on  the  shoulder — and  told  that 
they  are  better  than  ever  they  were  in  their  life  ;  while  the 
secret  malady  is  silently  eating  away  the  foundation  of  their 
existence  within,  and  reminding  them  perhaps,  at  the  veiy 
instant  that  they  make  a  ghastly  effort  to  correspond  wit!i 
the  gay  and  smiling  countenance  of  their  well-wisher — re- 
minding tliem,  by  a  new  pang,  of  the  deadly  certainty  of 
their  doom.  Although  Lilly  Byrne  had  long  since  com- 
pelled hei-self  to  refrain  in  all  instances  from  a\iy  act,  word, 
or  look,  which  had  no  other  oliject  than  that  of  attracting 
pity  to  her  sufferings  (contenting  herself  according  to  the 
precept  of  her  religion,  with  having  the  Bi'lng  that  visited 
her  with  these  for  their  only  witness) — still  she  could  not 
help  feeling  a  certain  blank  and  dismal  solitariness  of  spirit 
when  her  friends  all  rose  and  crowded  round  her  as  shj 
entered,  smiling,  pressing  her  hand,  and  congratulating  her 
on  her  merry  looks — when  Mi-s.  Hasset,  a  rather*  subordi- 
uite  relative  of  the  family,  took  her  seat  in  Robert  Kuniba's 
o'd  place,  on  the  chintz-covered  settee,  and  laughed,  and 
^hook  her  head,  and  "knew  it  avouIJ  not  last,  so  she  did!" 
'•  Time  did  wonders,"  the  old  lady  slily  insinuated ;  and 
though  it  was  very  true  that — 

"  Love  is  longer  than  the  way. 
Love  is  deeper  than  the  sea ;" 

yet  even  the  sea  itself  would  run  dry  at  last  if  the  nvers 
w  ere  cut  off — and  it  Avould  be  a  ver}'  long  way  indeeii,  that 
did  not  come  to  an  end  or  a  turning,  at  any  rate  [this  word 
was  prouounced  with  a  very  roguish  emphasisj  at  some 


4G0  SUIL  DHDV, 

time  or  another.  Lilly  would  forgot  it  all  boforesheMas 
twice  marrie'd.  Thare  was  Mrs.  Blancy,  mother  to  th« 
lilaiieys  of  the  Hill,  some  of  wliom  were  there,  silting  op- 
p'>site  her — who  went  on  jud  in  the  same  ivay  as  Lil/t/, 
\,l:eia  she  was  slicjhted  by  her  first  lover;  nobody  thought 
she'd  ever  recover  again,  and  see  there  slie  was  now,  the 
mother  of  a  s-ct  of  fine  young  men  as  any  in  the  three  coun- 
ties ;  and  the  gran  Imother  of  that  little  fat  girl  that  sat, 
looking  shily  round  upon  the  couipany^  So  let  Lilly  not 
be  down  about  it — for  she  had  only  to  set  her  cap  at  the 
right  side  of  her  head,  to  win  a  better  offer  than  she  had 
lost  tJie  last  trick. 

Although  Lilly  endured  all  this  martyrdom  without  a 
singh'  look  or  even  wil'ul  thought  of  impatience,  we  should 
accad  lier  a  degree  of  fortitude,  perhaps  beyond  the  reach 
of  sympathy'  or  truth,  if  we  said  that  slie  did  not  feel  inex- 
pressibly relieved  when  tlie  entrance  of  the  tea  diverted  liie 
worthy  JMrs.  Hassett's  attention  from  her  and  her  sonows. 
While  the  good  lady  was  occupied  in  bestowing  her  ad- 
miration on  the  transparency  of  the  immerse  china  bowl — 
the  delicacy  and  shortness  of  the  slim-cake — discussing  the 
respective  meritsof  the  Cork  and  Limerick  groceries — (Uncle 
Cutlibcrtand  herself  having  always  a  dispute  on  thissubjtict 
whenever  they  met) — and  deploring  the  economy  of  some 
neighbouring  family  who  never  brought  out  tea  to  their 
visiters  at  luncheon,  a  practice  which  the  novelty  of  the 
beverage  in  those  days  mule  fashionable  in  the  country 
parts  of  Ireland — Lilly  stole  on  to  a  group  of  grown  girls 
who  were  gulrrcd  around  little  Blaney  above  mentioned, 
some  on  their  knees  before  her  — others  leaning  on  the  back 
of  her  cliair,  and  all  joining  in  a  request  that  she  would 
give  them  a  song. 

"VVheu  Lilly  Byrne  approached  her  she  looked  with  a 
timid  smile  from  beneath  her  brow,  and  said — "  I'll  sing  il 
you  bid  me,  I  will." 

"  I  do,  then,  my  little  darling,"  said  Lilly,  kijsing  her. 


THE    COINR. 


4G1 


Tlie  girl  then  plucked  up  coura<ie,  arid  chanted  wltli  a 
trenmious  litilo  pipe,  a  piece  of  uiusery  uamb\ -piunby, 
Nvliich  raij  as  follows  ; — 

I. 
What  are  little  boys  made  of — n:adt  v/i 
What  are  little  bjys  n;aJc!  of? 
Of  snips  ar.d  snails 
And  pupi'.y-dog's  tails — 
That's  what  little  boys  are  made  of. 

II. 
What  are  little  girls  made  of — made  of? 
What  are  little  girls  made  of? 
Of  sugar  and  spice, 
And  all  that  s  nice — 
That's  vvtiat  little  girls  are  made  of. 

Before  the  munnurs  of  approbation  and  encouragement 
had  subsided — and  wiiile  Mrs.  Hassett  was  declaring  that 
the  wef  sonii>;tre.=s  had  a  fine  clear  voice  and  a  very  good 
ear,  anu  o'.igiit  not  to  be  neglected,  the  bttter  ran  over  to 
Lilly,  and  throwing  herself  into  her  lap,  looked  up  in  her 
eyes  and  sayed,  in  her  little  brogue,  "If  you  plase,  I  call 
on  00  for  a  song,  now." 

"  What  C3i;g,  my  love  ?" 

"The  songyou  know  yourself  about  'Old  time,'youknow," 

Lilly  had  as  lief,  for  certain  reasons,  that  her  young  friend 
had  spoken  of  some  other  song — but  seating  herself  im- 
modiatelv  at  her  harpsicliorJ,  she  complied  with  great  sweet* 
ness.  We  Happen  to  have  a  copy  of  the  stanzas  in  our 
possession  ; — 

Old  times!  old  times!  the  gay  old  times 

When  1  was  young  and  free, 
And  heard  the  merry  liaster  chimes 

Under  the  sally  tree. 
My  Siiiidiiy  palm  beside  ms  placed^ 

My  cross  apon  my  hand  — 
A  heart  at  i  .':,t  withia  ni}'  breast, 

liiid  aiaishiue  on  the  land  ! 

Old  times ;  old  times ! 


462  STJIL  DQOT, 


n 

Jt  is  not  that  my  fortunes  tiee, 

Nor  that  my  cheek  is  pale — • 
I  mourn  whene'er  I  think  of  thee, 

Jly  iarlinir  native  vale  ! — 
A  wiser  head  1  have,  I  know, 

Than  A\hen  1  loitered  there-— 
But  in  my  wisdom  there  is  woe, 

And  in  my  knowledge,  care. 

Uld  times!  old  times t 

ni. 

IVe  lived  to  know  my  share  of  joy, 

To  feel  my  share  of  pain — 
To  learn  that  friendship's  self  can  c1oy« 

To  love  and  love  in  vain — 
To  feel  a  pang  and  wear  a  smile 

To  tire  of  other  climes — 
To  like  my  own  unhappy  isle, 

And  sing  the  gay  old  times! 

Old  times !  old  times  I 

IV. 

And  sure  the  land  is  nothing  changed, 

'the  birds  are  siiiying  still ; 
The  flowers  are  springing  where  we  ranged, 

'1  here's  sunshine  on  the  hill  ! 
The  sally,  waving  o'er  my  head, 

Stdl  sweeth'  shadf  s  my  frame — 
But  ah,  those  happy  days  are  tied, 

And  I  am  not  tlie  same  ! 

Old  times!  old  times  I 

V. 

Oh,  come  again,  j-e  merry  times! 

Sweet,  sunny,  fresh,  and  calm — 
And  let  me  hear  those  Kaster  chimes. 

And  wear  my  Sunday  palm. 
If  I  couhl  cry  away  mine  eyes 

ISIy  tenrs  would  flow  in  vain  — 
If  1  could  waste  my  heart  in  sighs, 

They'd  never  come  again  ! 

Old  times'  dd  times. 


THE  COINER.  463 

"  Very  well !  Sweetly  sung  indeed,  Lilly,"  snid  Mrs.  Hns- 
sett — "but  I  t'i'ink  you  used  to  sing  it  with  more  spirit  long 
ago.     Tbcjast  ti'nc  I  heard  you  I  believe  was  when — " 

"  0,  no  matter  when,  .Ma'am,"  said  Lilly,  laughing  off 
the  frightful  reminiscence,  that  the  worthy  old  lady  was 
about  to  bhmder  upon  in  her  honest,  plain  way — "  but  I 
must  use  my  privilege."  And  wishing  to  stop  the  good 
woman's  tongue  in  one  way,  by  employing  it  another,  a 
stratagem  which  she  was  the  more  induced  to  adopt,  as  she 
knew  that  the  very  shortest  of  Mrs.  Hassett's  songs  would 
consume  a  considerable  portion  of  the  evening,  shi;  flung  her 
mantle  in  turn  to  that  lady, 

Mrs.  Hassett's  little  melody  completely  disinclined  the 
company  from  any  f  irther  amusement  in  the  vocal  way,  the 
more  e?p  cialiy  as  the  night  had  fallen,  in  the  meanwhile, 
and  the  darkness  was  so  great  by  the  time  she  had  wound 
up  the  history  of  '•  The  lady  of  skin  and  bone,"  that  tiie 
company  could  no  longer  discern  each  other's  faces. 

"  Lilly,  my  love,  I  think  it  would  be  almost  time  to  get 
the  candies,"  said  Mrs.  Byrne. 

"  How  suddenly  the  night  fell !"  said  Mrs.  Hassett.  "  It 
looks  as  if  we  were  to  have  a  storm,  and  I  brought  nothing 
but  my  pattens  and  cloak." 

"Oh,  we  can  manage  that  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Byrne. 
"  Well,  Lilly,  what  about  the  candles  ?" 

"  I  told  James  to  gi't  them  ready  an  hour  since,  mother." 

"  Ring  the  bL-ll  for  him,  my  dear." 

Lilly  did  so. 

"  I  don't  know  what  keeps  our  uncle  Cuthbert  so  late," 
said  Mrs.  Byrne  ;  ''  he  was  to  have  been  here  before  now, 
"We  had  all  such  laugliing  at  him  the  other  morning,  about 
a  bar'ain  he  made;  with  whom,  gu/ss  ?" 

'•  Oh,  indeed,  I  heard  of  it — Man-y  Mac  0'  Neil,  th? 
gv.ld-H'ider.     That  was  a  prttv  biisiii"ss." 

*•  He  went  oil'  with  two  of  the  sub-s.-eriif's  men  this  mor« 


464  suiL  DHur, 

nin;^  to  look  for  the  fellow.     Eh  ?    Heaven  preseiTe  us  ! 
Was  not  that  lifrhtning-  ?" 

"  Oh,  no — it  was  but  the  flashing  of  the  candle-light 
from  the  hall  upon  the  tea-things." 

"  But  there's  no  catulie-light  in  the  hall,  mother,"  said 
Lilly,  "  or  'twould  be  here  before  now.  I  wonder  why 
James  doesn't  answer  the  bell." 

"  I'll  be  bou'.id,"  said  Mrs.  Byrne,  "  he's  gone  out  to  look 
at  the  bonfires  on  the  fiirzhill.  Will  you  run  down,  and 
see  what  keeps  him,  Lilly  ?  and  take  care  now,  not  to  hart 
yoursi'lf  with  the  bad  step  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  as  you're 
in  the  dark." 

Lilly  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 

Lnmediately  after,  the  distant  niutteriug  of  the  thunder 
placed  Mrs.  Byrne's  conjecture  out  of  the  reach  of  all  doubt. 
The  conversation  of  the  company  became  hushed  and  bro- 
ken— and  confined  altogether  to  cbservatious  on  the  eflect 
of  the  chang '. 

The  door  again  opened  and  shut. 

"  Well,  Lilly,  where  are  the  candles  ?"  said  Mrs.  Byrne, 
"  Is  JmiQs  below  ?" 

There  was  no  answer.  "  Who  was  it  came  in  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Byrne.  "  Ah,  come  now,  Lilly — no  tricks,  if  you  please. 
This  is  no  time  for  joking.      Why  don't  you  answer  girl?" 

Tlie  handle  of  the  door  again  turned — and  again  it  was 
shut  fast. 

"  Bless  me  !"  exclaimed  one  of  the  young  ladies,  starting 
from  hi'v  cliair,  and  clasping  Mrs.  Hassett's  shoulder, 

"  What's  the  matter,  you  foolish  child?" 

"  O'l,  M  I'am,"  the  girl  replied,  panting  with  fear,  "  I 
— I  do  I't  kno.v — but  som.-thing  brushed  close  by  me." 

"  Pooh  ! — nonsense  !"  said  Mrs.  Byrne,  picvishly. 
"Well,  Lilly,  my  la  !y,"  she  added  gaily,  while  lier  heart 
fallid  ht-r,  "  I'll  pay  you  for  this.  You're  a  pretty  girl,  to 
oblige  me  to  leave  my  guests." 


THE  COINER.  465 

So  snylng,  Mrs.  Bjrne  left  the  room,  the  gnests  remain- 
ing hushed  in  an  anxiety  which  their  hostess's  aflected  levity 
did  r.otat  all  tend  to  alleviiite. 

In  a  few  minutes,  Mrs.  Byrne  re-entered  with  a  light — 
her  countenance  being  moved  with  an  expression  between 
vexution  and  real  terror. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  snid  hurriedly,  "  but  I  see 
this  girl  is  determined  to  play  the  fool  to-night.  She  has 
hid  herself  somewhere  or  other,"  she  added,  farcing  herself 
to  believe  what  her  heart  and  her  knowledge  of  Lilly's  cha- 
racter ought  to  have  prevented  her  admitting  for  an  instant. 

Tiiey  all  proceeded  to  search  the  louse.  The  hall  door 
was  found  open — the  wind  and  rain  driving  in,  and  wetting 
the  large  arm  chairs  that  were  placed  beneath  the  hat-racks. 
But  Lilly  ^^as  no  v,-here  to  be  seen. 

The  silence,  the  suddenness  of  this  disappearance,  had 
something  supernatuml  in  it.  It  was  a  long  time  before 
tiie  wretclicd  mother  would  admit  the  reality  of  her  mis- 
fortune ?  but  when,  at  last,  it  burst  upon  her  mind  so  for- 
cibly as  to  break  down  all  tie  o]  po.-ition  which  her  fears 
h;id  raised  against  the  conviction,  the  scene  which  Drum- 
scanlon  presented  was  such  as  no  one,  who  had  witnessed 
the  quiet,  social  e;ijoyinent  of  the  family  party  an  hour  be- 
fore, could  possibly  have  anticipated — the  guests  hurrying 
10  and  fro,  or  standing  still  and  staring  on  one  anoiher  in 
silent  astouisliment,  while  the  poor  distracted  hostess,  for- 
going ali  the  ceremonies  of  her  station,  has. sued  from  room 
to  room,  mingling  her  heavy  sci earns  of  terror  with  the 
pealing  of  the  thunder,  and  clasping  her  hands,  witli  the 
action  expressive  of  deep  afllicliou  which  is  so  peculiar  to 
Iter  couiitrj. 


20* 


466  suiL  Diitrv', 

ClIAITEil  XIV. 

"  O  smite  softe,  sire  miue,"  quod  she. —  Chaucer. 

The  reader,  however,  can  learn  but  little  of  the  causes  of 
tbis  cl)an<;-e  by  remaining  to  witness  the  affliction  of  the 
good  old  lady.  We  shall,  therefore,  once  more,  venture  to 
j)inion  the  wings  of  old  Time,  while  we  relate  an  incident 
that  may  assist  in  exjilaining  them. 

Mrs.  Byrne  evinced  nothing  more  than  an  acquaintance 
with  the  character  of  her  servant,  James  Miliil,  when  she 
supposed  that  he  had  been  seduced  into  a  neglect  of  his  do- 
mestic duties  on  this  evening,  by  a  curiosity  to  witness 
and  participate  in  the  festivities  of  the  Eha-na-Shaun. 
Having,  as  he  imagined,  comj)leted  all  the  offices  which 
fell  to  his  share,  on  the  occasion,  seen  the  party  fairly  es- 
tablished at  tea — the  griddle  laid  aside  to  cool — the  turf- 
basket  outside  the  parlour-door,  replenished  with  good  hard 
sods,  broken  small  so  as  to  take  the  fire  kindly — the  silver- 
plated  candlesticks  nicely  polished,  and  set  in  order  on  the 
kitchen-table — so  that  if  any  unforeseen  misfortune  should 
detain  him,  Miss  Lilly  should  have  nothing  more  to  do  than 
to  light  them  with  the  twisted  touch  paper  he  had  placed 
near  them  :  having  taken  all  these  precautions,  and,  more- 
over, unlooped  from  the  wall  above  his  own  settle-bed  a 
small  bottle  of  last  Easter  Sunday's  holy  water,  which  he 
preserved  with  an  economical  reverence,  s]>rinkliiig  his 
fore-head  with  the  consecrated  li(iuid,  and  left  the  house, 
not  without  keeping  a  wary  eye  about  him  as  he  jiroceed- 
ed,  lest  some  evil  disposed  spirit  of  the  night  should  take 
him  at  an  advantage. 

Within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the  house,  lay  a  large  field 
which  was  allotted  to  a  few  ccllcp  of  cattle,  as  gi'azing 
ground,  in  extent  being  greauly  disproportionate  to  the  quan- 
tity of  its  herbage  ;  a  circumstance  which  was  in  some  mea- 
sure accounted  for  by  the  number  of  furze  bushes  which 


THE  COINER.  467 

were  sc-itterad  over  it.  The  nipht  was  alrc:uly  dark,  before 
Jair.es  descendel  the  e;irilieni  slild  wiiich  led  inro  ihe  tielJ 
— and  the  brilliancy  of  tills  iiitle  district  in  itself,  made 
tiie  gloom  of  the  surrounding  lieavens  stdl  more  dense  and 
impenetrable.  The  bushes  had  ije^n  set  on  fire,  at  various 
cornel's  of  the  field,  and  were  noiv  crackling  and  blazing 
away  witii  gi-eat  fury.  The  herdsman  of  the  farm  and  s-onie 
cf  his  retainers,  with  lighted  fci;j;gots  in  their  hands,  wera 
chasini;-  the  cows  back  and  forward  making  them  some- 
times leap  in  theii  desp  'ration  over  the  flames,  and  burning 
the  hair  on  their  sides  with  their  faggots — a  iractice  which 
is  supi'O^ed  to  avert  thi  cu'-se  of  barrenness  in  the  herd. 
After  exchanging  a  ?alij*^atiov  and  a  few  ready  joke-i  with 
the  men,  James  proceeded  slowly,  his  hands  behind  his  back 
and  a  broad  grin  of  admiration  on  liis  tl-atures,  towards  the 
central  bonfiie  of  the  field. 

Wiiile  he  stood  gazing  on  the  blackened  trunk  and  boughs 
of  the  burning  shrub,  the  flame,  as  it  were,  iiollowing  out 
a  duelling  for  itself  in  the  centre,  while  ic  left  the  green 
and  b'.ossomy  texture  overhead  yet  un'njured,  his  attention 
was  attracted  by  the  approach  of  two  strange  men,  who 
seemed  as  if  they  had  been  exhausted  by  a  long  and  rapid 
j  jurney  on  foot.  One  of  them  was  a  tall,  awkwardly  built 
fellow,  to  whom  James  did  not  pay  any  particular  attention! 
but  no  the  other — a  low,  tliin-taced  lad,  with  the  p.itclicd 
and  curduroy  trowsers  turned  up  on  his  bare  le^s,  he  couM 
not  avoid  fixing  his  eyes,  wiih  a  certain  misgiving  that  ho 
had  seen  the  face  under  suspicions  circumstances,  some- 
wlieie  or  another,  before.  The  usual  gr^e  ing  having  p..s- 
BeJ  between  both  parties — 

"  A  smart  evei;en,  S'r,"  said  the  leaser  of  the  two. 
James  accorded  an  assent. 

"  We  made  so  bold,  Sir,"  ha  con:inued,  very  respect- 
fiilly,  "to  step  out  of  the  high  road — a  bad  night  coniea 
on — an'  to  ask  lave,  Sir,  to  stand  iiere.  Sir,  be  the  hve,  to 
tnke  a  haic  o'  de  blaze  agen  thi;  road,  Sir." 


4rfi8  SO  I.  Duvr, 

"  You're  liindly  wflcomo,"  s;ntl  J.-iiucs,  "  v.itliuut  sirring 
tlie  likes  o'  me  at  nil  so  niiicli  abinit,  iC 

"  Thank  V,  Sir,  Mac  !" 

"Aih?"' 

"  Where's  de  dram-bottle  ?  De  joutleman  '11  give  us  de 
liberty  o'  de  fire  a  while." 

"  Here's  the  bottle.     Will  you  take  a  taste  ?'' 

"  Why  den  dat  I  will  so,  you  may  take  your  bihle  oat 
of  it.  But  stay,  aisy  a  miiiit,"  [uncorkiiiir  the  flask,  wiping 
the  jole  with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  and  handing  it  most 
politely  towards  James,  who  continued  eyeing  him  with 
great  suspicion] — "  may  be  you'd  like  to  try  what's  inside 
of  it.  Sir?" 

"  No,  no,  we're  obleest  to  you  !"  said  James,  waving  him 
off,  with  a  degree  of  sullenness  which  lie  thought  tlie  free- 
dom wari'anted. 

The  refusal  did  not  a]ipear  to  break  the  heart  any  more 
than  it  lessened  the  spirits  of  the  stranger,  who  immedi- 
ately took  upon  himself  the  task  which  James  had  declined, 
and  pel  formed  it  with  evident  satisfaction. 

"  I  don't  blame  any  man  for  liken  his  own  best,"  said  he, 
fixing  his  eyes  with  a  knowing  leer  upon  James's  bottle. 

"O  then  indeed  you're  out  there,  for  all!"  returned 
James,  "  I  wasn't  so  fond  o'  meself,  that  way.  Its  only  a 
drop  o'  somethen  I  brought  with  me,  in  case  any  thin  bail 
would  be  there  before  me." 

"  Poh  !  sure  'tisn't  to  night  dey  have  any  power  at  all, 
^only  ilolland-tiye,  and  the  Inhiad  low-onthina?" 

"  C)  iss,  beggen  your  pardon,  and  to  night  also" — said 
James,  who  piqued  himself  on  being  a  kind  of  authority  in 
all  su[)erstitious  matters — "as  I,"  he  added  with  a  myste- 
rious nod,  and  compression  of  the  lips  and  eye  brows,  "  have 
good  reason  to  know.  To-night  isn't  so  bad  as  UoUand-tide 
for  'em,  but  still  they  do  be  there  for  all." 

"I  wonder  who  dt^y  are  dat  do  l)e  dere  at  all." 

"  Vaarious  sorts,  they  say.     The  d/iina  mauAa,  or  good 


THE    COINER.  4G9 

pro|,K%  tlmt  is  tlie  fallen  ano^els  that  was  almost  lost,  for- 
merly,  and  ninst  roinain  that  way,  Heaven  save  the  mark, 
'till  the  day  o'  jiidj^'niint,  and  more  o'  them  the  souls  o' 
those  that  arn't  bad  enough  for  the  great  purgatory,  and 
must  be  doen  pinence  that  way  upon  the  earth — wanderen 
over  and  hether,  some  without  air  a  head  on  'em,  and  more 
this  way  an'  that,  until  their  time  is  expired,  and  others  of 
'em  tliat  arn't  buried  in  consecrated  ground,  and  more  that 
has  debts  upon  their  souls,  an'  things  that  way." 

"  I  wonder  now,"  said  the  little  stanger,  "  would  purga- 
tory be  as  hot  as  that  fire  ?" 

"  It's  not  a  point  o'  faith  with  iiz  Catholics  to  say  what 
sort  purgatory  is,  whether  'tis  hot  or  cold — or  what  is  ttie 
nature  o'  the  punishment  that's  there — but  it's  great,  surely. 
I  hear  of  a  man  that  was  lying  once  u}ion  a  sick  bed,  pray- 
ing, and  an  angel  coom  an  axed  him  would  he  rather  have 
seven  years'  sickness  o'  that  nature,  or  three  minutes  in  pur- 
gatory. 'The  three  minutes  then,  to  be  sure,'  says  he. 
Well  and  good !  he  wasn't  one  minit  o'  that  in  purgatory 
when  he  cried  out,  '  0  murther,'  says  ho,  '  I  was  only  to 
be  left  three  minits,  an  here  I  am  three  hundred  years  al- 
ready."— See  what  it  is  ! — 

"  See  what  it  is,  why  !"  replied  the  other,  who  had  sid- 
led closer  up  to  the  speaker,  and  before  James  had  power 
to  enforce  the  moral  of  his  anecdote,  he  found  himself  on 
the  flat  of  his  back — a  great  bundle  of  hay  stuffed  into  his 
mouth,  so  as  nearly  to  smother  him,  while  the  foolish-louk- 
ing  fellow  whipt  out  of  his  pocket  the  key  of  the  hall-door. 
He  could  neither  stir  nor  groan. 

"Drag  him  o'  one  side  out  of  the  light,"  said  the  latter 
— "  the  boys  are  laving  the  field.  Let  us  get  into  the  dark 
until  they  pass.  Cry  out,  Sir,  if  you  like.  Pigs  may 
whistle,  but  they  have  very  ugly  mouths  for  it." 

They  moved  on,  and  James  had  the  cruel  mortification  to 
see  the  herdsman  and  his  companions  saunter  slow  ly  along 
within  fiftv  yards  of  them,  towards  their  own  homes — ma- 


L: 


470  SUIL    DHUV. 

hinii  some  observations  on  th^!  chan^P  which  was  just  bo • 
eiunin;;  to  take  place  hi  tho  mtrnl.  They  loitered  an  in- 
stant abont  the  tire,  uhere  James  and  his  unwelcome  visiters 
bad  been  standing — held  out  their  hands  as  a  hi-sing  sound 
111  the  circle  of  flame  led  ttiem  to  suppose  that  the  rain  had 
already  commenced — and  then  walked  off  and  disnppeared 
in  the  darkness,  to  seek  a  remedy  in  the  luxury  of  slumber, 
lor  the  weariness  of  the  evening's  pastime.  James  felt  his 
heart  die  away  within  liim,  as  their  voices  grew  faint  in  the 
distance,  for,  always  disposed  to  overrate  any  peril  in  which 
he  happened  to  be  placed,  he  thought  he  had  no  further 
chance  of  deliverance  from  the  blood-hoauds  into  whose 
hands  he  had  fallen. 

"  Here  is  the  key,  Awney,"  said  the  taller  of  the  men  ; 
"now  where  are  you  to  meet  Suil  Dhuv?" 

"  Here,  dis  way — near  to  the  path,  down  the  field — so 
that  the  horses  won't  miss  us.     Drag  this  gomeril  after  us." 

While  they  were  hauling  the  poor  unresisting  James 
along  the  ground,  in  that  fashion  which  Teague,  in  the  Com- 
mittee, calls  an  Irish  sedan,  the  thunder-storm  coaimenced 
in  good  earnest — and  the  sound  of  iiorses'  hoofs  ringing 
against  the  hard  field,  was  heard  plainly,  at  a  distance 
which  rapidly  dimini-^hed. 

"  Here  dey  come  !"  said  Awney  ;  ''  he  told  me  to  be 
before  him  an'  try  a  trick  o'  dis  kind.  Little  he  thought 
we'd  have  it  doon  so  aisy." 

At  the  same  instant  the  f(mr  horsemen  whom  they  ex- 
pected, came  on  at  full  speed,  and  bolted  upon  the  footman 
at  so  perilous  a  proximity  before  they  reined  up,  that  the 
foremost  animal  sunk  his  houf  deep  into  the  soil  within  an 
inch  of  the  head  of  the  prostrate  domestic,  who  was  unable, 
even  by  a  groan,  to  make  them  aware  of  his  danger. 

'* AVho's  there  ?  Maney  ?  Fanel?  Well?  what  have 
you  done  ?" 

''Wliist?  Coom  down  o' your  iiorse,  and  seel" 

oail  Dhuv  dismounted. 


J 


THE  COINEB.  471 

"  Ay,  well  (lojie !  Awne}-,"  said  he,  when  the  latter  haj 
pnt  him  in  possession  of  the  wii ole  of  their  proceedings— 
"  Now,  let  rae  see  !  My  lads,  wliich  of  you  knows  Driim- 
scanlou  house  ?" 

"  I  remeiviber  every  twist  and  turn  of  it,"  said  Awney, 
"  since  I  gev  deletter  dat  night  to  this  nat'rel  on  de  ground." 
James  groaned  in  heart  at  the  reculleciion. 

"  Very  well,  Awney — since  I  have  got  the  key,  I  will 
require  little  assistance.  So  do  you,  lads,  ride  hard  and 
fast  over  the  commons,  to  the  Corig-on-dliiol,  for  fear  we 
miss  the  other  prize.  They  must  have  foundered  by  this 
time." 

Mun  Malier  and  his  two  companions  rode  off,  seemingly 
well  Content,  d. 

"  Jlaney,"  continued  the  Coiner,  "  take  the  reins  of  my 
horse,  and  stand  close,  to  your  prisonei*.  And  now  Awney, 
the  key,  and  follow  me  !  It  anything  should  happen,  Maney, 
you  know  our  signal," 

They  went  off  together  towards  the  hou?e,  leaving  James 
in  a  state  of  mind  which  may  pjssibly  be  guessed  at,  when 
we  say  that  the  very  gentlest  idea  he  had  of  their  inten- 
tions wa^,  that  they  were  about  to  set  fire  to  the  dwelling, 
and  rob  and  murder  every  individual  they  Ibund  undei'  its 
roof. 

A  quarter  of  an  liour  elapsed,  during  which  James  suffered 
a  degie;  of  the  torture  of  the  poor  man,  the  story  of  whose 
fortunes  had  betrayed  him  into  a  forgetfulness  of  liis  own 
persuual  safety,  and  whom,  for  his  innocent  agency  in  his 
nii.«funune,  James  was  once  or  twice  inclined,  notwiths:an  l- 
ing  his  Catiio  ic  principles,  to  wish  in  a  wor.-e  place.  His 
aguny  of  suspense,  however,  was  only  changed  for  that  of  de- 
spair, when  he  beheld  Sail  Dhuv  returning  in  haste  with  the 
form  of  a  female  in  mouruiug,  which  he  was  not  long  in  re- 
cognising, hanging  on  his  shoulder,  stretching  her  hands  back 
in  silence  towards  the  house,  and  struggling  violently,  but 
veiy  vainly.     When  they  came  near,  he  perceived  tue  oc- 


472  SUiL  DKUV, 

casion  of  her  silence.  A  heavy  cotton  handkerchief  was 
tied  over  her  mouth. 

"  Loose  the  gag,  uow,  Awn^j,"  exclaimed  Suil  Dhuv — 
"nobody  will  hear  her  squalls  now.  Stay,  I'll  do  it  my- 
self." And  setting  down  his  wretched  prey,  he  slipped  the 
knot  of  the  handkerchief,  as  the  turgid  and  blackening  face 
and  staring  eye  of  the  prisoner  advertised  him  of  the  necessity 
of  using  some  expadition.  The  instant  the  obstruction  was 
removed,  a  shriek,  as  wild  and  piercing  as  female  terror 
ever  uttered,  burst  from  the  disf  anchised  throat,  and  died 
away  in  the  horrid  gurglings  of  suffocation,  as  the  rudian, 
startled  by  the  sound,  griped  the  poor  girl's  throat  hard, 
cursed,  swore  at  her,  and  even  had  the  brutality  to  clench 
his  rough  fist,  and  raise  it  as  if  to  strike  her  on  the  flice. 

"  Come,  gi'  me  the  horse  here,  Mauey.  Be  silent,  I 
warn  you,  if  you  value  your  life  !" 

'•  I  do  not  value  it,  rutiian!"  she  exclaimed,  renewing 
her  cries  for  at^sistance — "  I  will  not  stir  !  Stand  back, 
coward  and  villain  that  you  are !  0,  have  I  no  friend  in 
hearing  ?     Am  I  quite  deserted  ?     0  IK-aven,  hear  me  !" 

"  Here,  put  this  loody  about  you,  miss,  an  I  be  quiet, 
that's  what  you'll  do,"  said  Suil  Dhuv,  attempting  again 
to  force  her  ou  the  horse,  while  the  animal  becoming  res- 
tive at  the  fearful  sounds  \\i;h  which  his  ears  were  assailed, 
increased  his  difficulty  and  his  impatience. 

"  Lilly  Byrne !"  exclaimed  t:.e  exasperated  Coiner, 
"  do  you  remember  the  nooe  that  warned  you  from  the 
sally  grove.  It  is  the  same  friend  that  wishes  to  save 
you  now." 

''  1  want  no  friends'iip  like  this.  If  danger  threatens 
me,  let  me  meet  it  by  my  mother's  side.  If  I  am  to  die, 
let  me  perish  under  my  own  roof.  I  will  not  stir  from 
this  !      I  will  not  go  with  you  !" 

"You  shall,  by \" 

"  I  will  not  stir  !  Help,  Heaven  !  0  Heaven,  do  not 
forsake  me  now  !     0  my  L  )rd,  whom  I  have  served,  must 


THE  COINES.  479 

this  happen  while  yoTir  lightnings  are  about  hs  ?  0  hear 
Lie,  my  last  ami  first  frieiid!  Do  not  tors  ike  me;  strike 
the  rutlian — or  strike  vie  from  his  horrid  grasp.  Ha  ] 
help — I  am  heaid.     Tiiey  are  coming — help — help  !" 

Heaven  did  hear  her.  A  horseman  dashing  furiously 
to  vard  them  through  the  heavy  rain,  intercepted  the  flight 
of  the  Coiner.  It  was  Robert  Kumba.  He  sprung  from 
his  horse,  and  called  in  a  hoarse  voice  on  his  enemy  to 
stand.  Lilly,  recognising  him,  with  a  cry  of  joy,  ran 
towards  him  with  outstretched  arms. 

A  bullet  from  the  holster  pistol  of  the  Suil  Dhuv  was 
swifter  in  its  course  than  she.  The  space  was  empty  where 
she  should  have  found  her  lover,  and  before  she  could  dis- 
tinctly comprehend  the  accident  which  had  occurred,  the 
arm  of  the  ruffian  had  again  encircled  her  waist. 

Again  slie  renewed  her  cries  of  fear  and  agony,  and 
agnin  they  were  heard  and  ansAvercd.  The  thick  and 
l.usky  voice  of  a  man  was  heard  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
field,  fulminating  a  volume  of  threats  at  some  person  mIio 
obstructed  his  pass :.ge,  and  who,  by  t'le  fierceness  and 
loudness  of  her  shrieks  and  entreaties,  showed  that  Lilly 
Byrne  was  not  the  only  female  sufferer  in  the  affray.  At 
the  same  instant  James  succeeded  in  liberating  himself 
from  the  trammels  in  which  JIaney  had  bound  him.  He 
started  to  his  feet — threw  his  arms  out  from  his  shouldert 
as  if  to  assure  himself  of  his  recovered  freedimi,  tlien,  by 
Avay  of  an  introductoi-y  feat  to  the  exploits  which  he  medi- 
tated, he  clenched  his  fist,  capered  into  the  air  with  a 
"  Hoop  !  whishk  !"  and  descending  \\\t\\  the  whole  weight 
of  his  jierson  upon  the  gaping  and  astonished  gold-finder, 
bettoAved  him  a  blow  on  the  timple  that  speedily  rendered 
him  indifferent  to  the  whole  ati'air. 

While  he  paused,  a  little  aw-e-strnck  by  the  elevated 
jnstol  of  the  Suil  Dhuv,  the  strugglers  in  the  dark  :;p- 
proached  more  near.  The  Coiner  grew  pale  and  red  by 
uirus  as  he  recognised  the  voices. 


454  SUIL  DHUV, 

"  Hie  very  graves  Avill  give  up  their  dead  to  save  you 
nizvr  lliis,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  believe  you're  charmed 
No  matter.  It  was  well  I  took  enre  of  the  pistols  and 
animunitioii.     Up  !  iu  spite  of " 

"  Drag — tear  her  from  nie  1"  roared  the  Pahitiue,  call- 
ing to  James,  who  was  hurrying  towards  them,  "she 
would  abet  the  murder  !  Let  free  my  arms  !  Look  !  He 
is  on  horseback — he's  gone — escaped  !" 

"  Do  not  go  ! — 0  mercy  ! — husband  !  fly  ! — have  mercy 
on  me  !  I  will  not  quit  liim  ruflian  !"  The  woman  conti- 
nued, struggling  wildly,  as  James  tore  her  from  the  old  man 
and  hurried  her  away  to  a  distance  from  the  place — "  0  my 
good  man,  Heaven  will  bless  you,  and  let  me  go  and  sepa- 
rate them  ?  They  are  my  husband  and  my  father  !  Hea- 
ven bless  you  and  do  !  Heaven  bless  you  and — You  villain 
let  me  go !  They  will  murder  each  other  ! — Father  !  My 
father  !  Have  mercy  on  me,  father  !  Hun  !  run  for  your 
life,  Denny,  honey,  run  !" 

Before  the  first  sentence  of  this  speech  was  uttered,  the 
two  enemies  had  confronted  each  other  in  silence.  A  p;de 
grim  smile,  which  showed  more  ghastly  in  the  reddish  light 
of  the  now  subsiding  fires  and  the  momentary  flashes  of  ti.e 
lightning,  showed  the  deadly  satisfiiction  which  the  old  man 
felt  in  the  encounter.  The  hatred  of  his  qniagonist  was 
not  less  apparent,  but  tliere  was  a  degree  of  quiviring  in- 
secuiity  about  the  muscles  of  his  face,  Mhich  signified  ti'at 
the  encounter  perplexed  at  least  as  much  as  it  gratified 
him. 

"  I  thank  Heaven,  ]\Iacnamara — we  are  met,  at  last,"  said 
the  o'd  man.  "Give  up  that  lady — and  come  with  me — 
quietly." 

Sail  Dhuv  eleva'ed  his  pistol,  sheltering  the  lock  cautiously 
v,iili  liis  hand,  but  having  only  one  shot  remaining,  he  felt 
that  it  would  be  more  prudent  to  husband  it.  "  1  do  not 
w  ant  your  life,"  said  he,  "  stand  o'  one  side,  and  let  me 
pass." 


THE  COINEB.  475 

*'  I  warn  yon  to  stand  back,"  said  the  old  man.  *'  In  the 
name  of  the  king,  whose  laws  you  have  broken — I  arrest 
you  for  a  prisoner." 

"  You  h;id  better  not  mind  it,"  said  his  enemy. 

"Villain,"  continued  the  Palatine,  "your  hour  is  come. 
I  took  you  into  my  house  and  into  the  bosom  of  my  family, 
when  the  whole  world  besides  had  cast  yon  off,  and  the 
gratitude  you  showed  me  was  to  render  my  condition  as 
desolate  as  your  own.  I  have  hunted  you  out  to  bring  your 
deeds  home  to  your  door — and  the  Almighty  has  delivered 
you  into  my  hands  at  length." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  ruffian,  warmly — "  you  took  me  into 
your  hoiise,  to  thrust  me  out  again  more  destitute  than  ever. 
You  threw  temptations  in  my  way  that  man  could  not  re- 
sist, anJ  beggaieil  me  for  yielding  to  them.  When  1  left 
your  house,  1  had  done  you  no  injury — your  benefits  I  had 
paid  witii  my  labour — I  sought  to  do  you  none — I  lived  an 
easy  life  with  my  brother,  and  might  be  living  with  him 
stid,  if  you  anil  yours  had  not  risen  up  against  us  to  divide 
and  persecute  us.  Ye  murdered  him  among  ye — and  ye 
left  me  without  a  friend  in  the  world.  Take  the  fruits  of 
your  labour  !  You  ruined  me — I  hated  you — and  I  hate 
you  still — but  I  am  satisfied  with  the  revenge  I  had — I  tell 
you  again  I  do  not  want  your  blood.  You  have  but  a  little 
to  spare,  and  if  you'd  keep  that  little,  you'll  stand  aside  and 
let  n>e  go  my  ways." 

'•  Daring  and  hardened  wretch,"  exclaimed  the  Palatine 
— "you  may  well  say  that  you  have  been  satisfied.  If 
blood  was  wanted  to  content  you,  you  have  had  enough." 

"  Come — come,"  said  Macnamara  inipaiiently — '•  I  don't 
understand  you,  but  1  have  no  time  to  bid  you  explain  your 
meaning." 

"  Advance  at  your  peril  ?" 

"What  rasin  iiave  you  to  me,  Mr.  Segur  ?  I  tell  you 
'tis  better  to  let  me  go." 

"jSu  reason,  certainly,"  exclaimed  the  old  man — "  give 


476  SUIL  DHUV, 

me  back  the  old  blind  man  you  murdered  first — and  then 
give  me  my  daughter — aad  you  m.iy  go  your  ways  in 
peace." 

"  0 — poh  !  how  do  you  know  I  had  any  call  to  the  dark 
man — and  as  for  Sally — sure  there  she's  v/estwards  in  the 
fields  ;  take  her — and  welcome.  Keep  out  o'  my  way  now, 
I'd  advise  you.  Ha  1  ha ! — 0  if  you  think  it's  that  I  mind  !" 
checking  his  horse,  as  the  Palatine  presented  a  pistol,  and 
gathering  the  now  insensible  Lilly  closer  to  him,  as  he  pre- 
pared to  set  h-is  foot  in  the  stirrup. 

"Poor  duped,  deceived  wretch!"  cried  the  Palatine — 
"  once  more  I  bid  you  stand — Advance,  and  you  are  a  dead 
man  !" 

"  Poh— fire  and " 

The  oath  was  never  finished.  The  old  man  discharged 
his  weapon,  and  darted  forward  to  preven  a  return  of  the 
fire.  The  horse  at  the  same  instant  reared  back  on  its 
haunches  so  as  to  entangle  the  foot  of  the  rider  in  tlie  stir- 
rup, and  then  plunging  furiously  forward,  dragged  him  a'ong 
the  groand  until  both  were  oat  of  sight.  The  young  lady 
was  snatched  from  beneath  the  very  feet  of  the  terrified 
animal,  as  they  were  about  to  descend  upon  her,  by  James  ; 
while  the  Palatine  and  the  remainder  of  liis  party,  who  only 
now  rode  up,  hastened  in  the  track  of  the  flying  animal, 
with  lighted  faggots  in  tlieir  hands.  They  found  the 
wretched  man  lying  on  his  back  on  a  heap  of  stones  (some 
of  which  were  smeared  with  blood  and  battered  flesh),  gasp- 
ing in  the  agonies  of  death.  He  waved  his  bauds  and 
outstretched  fingers  before  his  face  as  the  dazzhng  red- 
light  of  the  crowed  torches  flashed  upon  his  eye-balis.  A 
frightful  convulsion,  first  of  terror,  and  then  of  hate,  passed 
over  his  countenance,  as  the  Palatine  passed  throug.i  tlie 
strong  light  and  gazed  down  upon  hi.n,  after  wliich 
thj  working  of  his  jaws  grew  more  painfully  stiti'  aril  dif- 
ficult— his  person  writhed  in  agony — a  sui\ering  passed 
throu^ih  liis  linibs — the  death  foam  oozed  over  bis  teeth 


.J 


THE  COINER.  477 

and  lipp — th"  F-oin*-,  that  seemed  to  cling  with  a  (lefpcrnt'? 
coiit^c'K'U.^ness  to  its  claj-,  as  its  last  liold,  was  forced  abroitii 
to  enci  iinier  tl  e  ruin  it  Lad  ejivncd  for  ifjelf^ — and  tiie  book 
of  its  niortal  ciin.es  and  sufa-iiu^s  was  closed  and  sealed  lor 
the  judgment. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

«' Where  is  the  life  that  I  led?" 

The  silence,  which  the  fearful  dentli  of  the  mnrclerer  had 
imposed  on  the  party  who  accompanied  the  Palatine,  was 
nnlrokcn  for  many  seconds.  They  gazed  on  the  shattered 
body  and  on  one  another,  as  if  the  extreme  horror  of  tlie 
occasion  had  lift  them  unable  to  form  an  unassisted  conjec- 
ture on  the  course  which  should  be  puisned.  The  old  muii 
was  the  first  who  spoke. 

"My  ))nrt  in  this  deed,"  he  said,  han(''ing  tliedischnrgcd 
pist'il  to  Mr.  Cut!  ber(,  Avho  had  just  tlien  ridden  up,  "may 
be  called  in  question.  I  am  your  prisoner,  and  ready  to 
answer  for  what  I  have  done.  Cover  him  !  cover  him  ! 
in  meny,"  he  added,  as  one  of  the  men  stooped  down  ap- 
parently with  the  intention  of  removing  the  body — then 
flinging  his  own  great  coat  over  it,  while  he  averted  his  eyes 
in  strong  dislike  and  compassion  blended — a  feeling  which 
the  pitiable  appearance  of  the  unhappy  wretch,  who  had, 
but  a  few  moments  before,  stood  erect  in  the  daring  and 
dreadful  defiance  of  desperate  guilt,  could  not  but  excite 
even  in  the  bosom  of  those  whom  he  had  most  deeply  in- 
jured— "I  never,  before  this  hour,"  the  old  man  continued, 
"  drew  one  drop  of  b'o  d,  knowingly,  fiom  the  smallest  crea- 
ture the  Almighty  ever  endowed  Avith  life — and  I  like  not 
the  look  of  this  well  enotigh  to  believe  that  I  can  be 
tempted  to  a  second  trial.     If  my  human  passion,"  he 


478  SUIL  DHU\', 

adclc.l,  Tmcovcrirg  lils  hrad  in  the  rain,  and  lookincr  od* 
^val•d,  '*  has  h;id  too  large  a  part  in  the  action  which  1  have 
done — may  He  forgive  <iiid  pity  me." 

''  Why  should  you  be  uneasy  ?''  sp.id  Mr.  Cuthbert, 
"  there  was  no  other  course  left,  audyou  only  made  justice 
certain." 

The  old  Pahitine  shook  Ids  head,  and  replaced  his  hat 
upon  his  brow,  while  tlie  remainder  of  the  spectators  raised 
the  body  for  the  purpose  of  removing  it  to  the  house  of  the 
nearest  cottager. 

Slowly,  and  in  silence,  they  took  their  way  toward  Drum- 
Rcaiilon.  They  could  perceive,  by  the  rapid  manner  in 
which  the  lights  passed  from  window  to  window,  that 
the  confusion,  occaMoaed  by  the  occur.inces  of  the  last  hour, 
hvn\  no^  yet  subsitled.  The  fla:;;>;ed  floor  of  the  h.all  was 
Wet  with  the  dripping  of  liats  U'.id  great-coats,  and  two  or 
three  of  the  guests,  heedless  of  the  pelting  rain  which  sfiil 
'cjcended,  were  engaged  in  whimpering  consultation  on  the 
gravel  plot  outside.  As  they  passed  the  kitchen  door, 
they  heard  the  voice  of  James  Mihil,  who,  in  the  attitude 
of  a  Demosthenes,  was  emplo\ed  with  all  his  might  in 
harangue'ng  one  of  the  Coiner's  accomi)lices,  the  only  one 
whom  they  had  succeeded  in  appiehending. 

"  Indeed  you  never  '11  jjass  the  next  assizes,  so  you  may 
make  yoiu-  mind  aisy.  Imleed,  the  hanguian  '11  make  his 
pcrqniges*  o'  you,  so  he  will." 

"  Don't  be  botherin  me,  I  tell  you  again,  you  fool." 

"  Botherin  you,  indeed  !  I  wondther  is  it  I  or  the  hang- 
man  that  '11  bother  you  most,  you  daaran  villyan,  to  lay 
hands  on  the  young  missiz.  An  that  intricket  little  sjiris- 
sawneen  f  tliat  P^t  the  gag  upon  my  mouth,  wliat  luck 
we  had  not  to  lay  hold  of  him  ! — Fool,  inah  ?  I  won  Ither 
is  it  yourself  '11  look  most  like  a  fool,  when  I'm  readen  your 
last  speech  on  a  bit  o'  whitey-brown  paper,  iu  the  Irish- 

•  Perquisites.  t  Small  fellow. 


,_J 


THE  COINER.  479 

town,  an  yon  cntten  cnpoars  above  on  Gallows-green,  wi;h 
a  henipen  cravat  about  your  neck,  as  proud  as  a  paycock 
spaken  to  nobody." 

"  1  wisht,"  said  the  prisoner,  "  I  did  my  mother's  bidden 
this  evenen.  I  Avouldn't  be  where  I  am  now.  He's  a  fuol 
that  refuses  the  mercy  of  Heaven  when  it  is  offered  him — 
but  it's  too  late  to  sp.'ak  about  it  now." 

Mr.  Cuthbert  here  broke  in  upon  t!ie  dialogue  to  inquire 
after  the  wounded  Kuuiba  and  Miss  Byi-ne,  who  were  both 
attended  in  separate  apartments — and  neitlierof  whom  had 
yet  fully  recovered  from  the  insensibility  into  which  tliL-ir 
sufferings  had  cast  thein. — During  the  few  weeks  that  wore 
suffered  to  pass  away,  before  the  former  was  suflicieutly 
restored  to  bear  a  removal  to  his  own  house,  no  communi- 
cation more  direct  than  an  enquiry  at  second  hand,  pasted 
between  the  friends — and  Kumba  left  t'le  home  of  his 
mistress,  without  even  the  ceremoiiy  of  a  formal  jjartiiig. 

This  heroic  forbearance  was  prolonged  for  many  years, 
during  which,  the  character  of  the  y<iung  "  midiile-m  in  " 
appeared  to  have  undergone  a  perfect  change — a  change 
which  communicated  itself  to  his  circumstances,  and  to  the 
property  which  he  held.  The  dwelling-house  gradually 
put  on  a  more  civilized  appearance,  the  stones  w  hicli  covered 
the  grazing  bind  were  removed  and  appropiiated  to  the 
moie  advantageous  use  of  fences  and  boundaries.  The 
cattle  began  to  look  more  sleek  and  c jmely,  better  pleased 
with  themselves  and  with  the  world  around  tiieni.  The 
barn  and  granary  groaned  beneath  their  burthens,  the  stroke 
of  the  flail  was  heard  incessantly  throughout  the  autumti, 
and  the  grating  of  cart-wheels  over  the  we!l-grave!led  avenue 
scarce  ever  left  the  ear  at  rest  throughout  the  day.  Not- 
withstanding all  the  hints  that  were  dropped  in  his  hearing, 
of  the  satisfaction  which  these  improvements  had  given  in 
a  certain  quan'er,  Kumba  was  careful  to  aiistain  from  any- 
thing that  could  indicate  a  premature  anxiety  to  revive  tlie 
memory  of  departed  hours,  and  he  even  chose,  on  Sundays, 


450  SUIL  DHUV, 

to  attend  a  dinpcl  which  was  near  three  miles  from  his 
resilience,  rather  than  hazard  a  renewal  of  the  distractions, 
which  his  prescnse  at  the  parish  place  of  wo  -ship  hid  iu 
old  times,  so  frequently  occasioned  to  another  as  well  as  to 
himself. 

Lilly,  who?e  pure  and  gentle  h?avt  would  have  been  con- 
tent to  find  its  sole  worldly  enjoyment  in  hearing  of  the 
happiness  of  one  whom  she  loved  with  so  disinterrested  an 
affiHtiiin,  was  more  pl3as:'d  than  gri3ved  at  this  privation, 
and  felt  herself  repaid  for  a'l  the  self-denial  by  the  accounts 
wiiich  daily  reached  her  (under  the  form  of  sly  jokes  and 
hints  frotii  witty  visitors)  of  Kumba's  welfare — and  by 
an  occasional  exclam  ition  from  James,  thrown  out  iu  au 
accidental  way,  of  "what  a  fiue  man  Master  llobert  was 
riden  into  a  fair  in  a  morneu !" 

Alas,  for  human  nature !  alas,  for  f^end^hip  !  alas,  for 
all  that  is  sincere,  and  honest,  and  benevolent ! — it  would 
be  we  fear,  a  mourn!ul  and  huiuiliatiiig  ta^k  for  the  philan- 
trophist,  to  analyze  the  motives  even  of  the  most  seeming 
amiable  actions  that  pass  around  him,  and  discover  how 
few  are  affectionate,  hu'v  few  generous,  how  few  are  com- 
passionate, how  few  are  humble,  even  of  those  who  act 
the  parts,  and  imagine  themselves  to  be  what  they  ap- 
pear. Our  best  friends,  says  a  modern  aphorist,*  have  a 
jealousy  even  in  their  fneudship,  ami  if  they  hear  us 
praised,  will  ascribe  the  commeiidatiun,  if  tluy  can,  to 
some  interested  motive.  We  app  al  to  the  reader,  whether 
he  has  noL  frcquiuiily  found  thraugh  life,  that  the  mo>t 
disagreeable  intelligence  has  often  reached  him  through  tlu 
medium  of  his  kindest  and  most  sympaihyzing  acquain- 
tance— and  whether,  in  the  fulness  of  an  extatic  heart,  wlicr. 
he  sought  that  same  kind  friend,  for  the  purpose  of  com- 
municating to  him  a  piece  of  sudden  good  foriune  which 
he  had  experienced,  he  has  not  often  been  met  by  somo 

*  The  author  of  Lacon. 


THECOIKEP..  4  SI 

clilirn;;  doubf,  some  frlontlly  caulioas  hint,  which  has  hum- 
bled his  vain  heart,  aud 

"  _  though  that  his  joy  were  joy, 
Yet  threw  such  changes  of  vexation  oa  it, 
As  it  might  lose  some  colour — " 

and  showed  him  at  the  same  time,  that  the  friends  whose 
sorrow  went  before  his  OAvn  in  tlie  hours  of  despondency 
and  disnppointment,  yet  Hngered  far  behind  him  in  the 
sympathy  of  gratulation.  We  shall  not  stop  to  calculate 
the  number  of  those  whose  generosity  mi^ht  safely  undergo 
a  test  so  severe,  and  peihap?,  so  uncliaritable. 

Neither  shall  we  examine  whetlier  the  ^vortliy  Mrs.  Has- 
set  was  one  of  the  many  vhose  benevolence  passes  current 
and  unsuspected  even  by  themselves  ;  or  wlicther  she  were 
influenced  by  any  other  impnlte  than  that  which  she  her- 
self believed  to  be  the  sole  motive  of  her  conduct--- a  feel- 
in;^  of  unal'oycd  good-nature  and  neiglibourly  kindness — 
when,  arminjf  herself  against  the  inclemency  of  a  misling 
April  morn,  in  cloak,  pattens,  and  hood,  she  took  her  early 
waj  to  Drumscanlon,  to  communicate  and  condole  with  the 
o!d  lady  and  her  danghier,  on  what  she  conceived  to  be 
a  very  hearl:-renning  piece  of  news. 

"A  mo'st,  sijft,  morncn,  it  is.  Ma'am,"  exclaimed  a  voice 
that  was  familiar  to  her,  as  she  slipped  oft"  her  pattens  oa 
the  steps  of  the  hall  door.  '•  Herself  is  in  the  kitchen  gar- 
den, westwards,  walken  ^^ith  Mits  Ldly — but  I'll  run  an 
call  her  to  you,  Ma'am." 

"Do  so,  James.     How  is  she  ?" 

"Ah,  then,  only  poorly,"  James  replied,  leaning  on  the 
end  of  the  hoe  with  which  he  had  been  clearing  away  the 
grass  tufts  fiom  the  gravel  plot,  and  tossing  his  head  Avith 
a  mournful  significance.  "  The  deafness  is  growing  worse 
with  her — an  she  can't  knit,  nor  do  a  hai'porth,  the  eye- 
Eight  is  so  bad.  They  got  a  sort  of  a  little  pochay  for  her, 
a  thing  like  a  chair  lor  all  the  world,  only  wheels — with 
21 


482  SUIL  DHOV, 

wnecls  to  it — so  as  that  I  draw  lier  about  a  piece  every 
nionipn — but  I  fear  it's  al  no  UfC.  They  got  new  spec- 
tacles too,  iu  place  o'  the  eyes — but  when  our  legs,  an'  our 
ears,  an'  our  eyes  are  going  fiom  us  in  course  o'  natiue, 
the  art  o'  man  wouldn't  make  us  new  ones." 

Having  pronounced  this  profound  apostrophe,  James 
hurried  towards  the  garden,  while  Mrs.  Hasset  adjourned 
to  the  parlour,  whei^e  she  occupied  herself,  until  James's  re- 
turn, in  regulating  the  furniture,  whisking  the  dust  from 
the  chimney  ornaments,  and  lecturing  the  housemaid  for 
her  negligence. 

The  indy  of  the  mansion  was,  in  the  meantime  seated 
with  her  daughter  in  a  small  thatched  sumpjer-house  in  the 
garden.  Age  and  sorrow  had  laid  a  heavy  and  visible  hand 
upon  her  frame;  f.ud  it  was  ^^ith  some  difficulty  that  even 
Lilly  Byrne  could  at  all  times  succeed  in  awakening  her  at- 
tention, so  as  to  arouse  her  from  the  lethargic  state  into 
which  the  wasting  of  nature's  resources  had  reduced  her. 

"Come,  now,  you  must  walk,  mother,"  said  Lilly,  pass- 
ing her  arm  beneath  that  of  the  drooping  lady,  and  lifting 
her  from  the  rustic  ?eat  ;  "the  raiii  is  over,  and  the  sun- 
shine will  do  you  good.  Only  as  far  as  the  suu-dial  anc' 
back  a  gain " 

They  proceeded  along  the  walk,  the  old  lady  leaning  on 
her  daugiiter,  and  supporting  herself  on  the  other  side  with 
the  gold-headed  oak  stick,  which  had  fur  many  years  been 
the  companion  of  her  husband's  w  alks.  The  change  which 
had  taken  place  in  the  person  of  her  daughter  was  also  con- 
siderable. Her  shape,  though  less  pliant  and  sylph-like, 
had  more  of  the  majesty  of  womanhood  about  it,  her  step 
was  firmer  and  more  easy,  and  her  features,  less  delicate  of 
tint  than  in  her  early  days,  were  covered  with  a  peaceful 
serenity  that  told  of  conquered  sorrow,  and  the  unrufileJ 
calmness  of  a  resigned  spirit — like  a  bittle  field  over  which 
reiurning  peace  had  thrown  her  miintle  of  rustic  quiet  and 
abundance,  without  coijcealiug  the  graves  of  buried  hopes, 


THE  COIKEa.  483 

aivd  v&^jq«isfio(l  pas?*onr,,  that  gave  a  sombre  interest  and 
soie<ii!iity  to  its  iovelincss. 

"  AVliat  was  it  tlie  visiters  said  yesterday,"  Mrs.  Byrne 
jnoiiired,  in  a  taint  tone,  "that  made  yoJi  all  langh,  Lilly? 
\cu  have  not  told  me  that  yet,  though  I  asked  you  three 
time;'." 

Lilly  looked  confused  and  hesitated,  and  her  mother,  by 
a  feeble,  melancholy  smile,  showed  that  she  understood  the 
cause  of  her  embarrassment. 

*'  ril  not  ask  you,  Lilly,"  she  continued,  speaking  with 
difficulty.  "  I  understand  he  is  groatly  changed.  I  wish 
I  could  see  you  hap-y  with  him,  Lilly,  before  I  died." 

J'efMe  her  daughter  could  reply,  James  had  entered  the 
guden.  The  talent  of  this  domestic  did  not  lie  in  a  very 
]i('rftcl  dlscrimiiiaiion,  and  it  was  a  fault  which  involved 
liim  in  many  a  gen ile//'«cas with  his  "young mistress,"  that 
he  C'Uild  ;it  no  time  govern  his  voice  to  the  proper  tone  Avhile 
addressing  Mrs.  Byrne.  He  knew  she  was  deaf,  and,  once 
convinced  of  the  necessity  of  speaking  aloud,  and  being 
wholly  unacquainted  with  the  effect  of  his  own  voice  above 
a  certain  familiar  key,  his  gentlest  communications  frecpiently 
operated  on  the  nerves  of  the  old  lady  with  the  influence  of 
a  ga!v<-,n'c  sh.ck.  At  the  present  moment,  while  she  was 
looking  with  some  faint  slyness  of  eye  on  the  changing 
countinnnce  of  her  daughter,  he  approached  her,  unper- 
ccived  by  either,  ami,  placing  his  lips  close  to  her  ear,  thun- 
dered into  it,  "  Misthris  liassit,  ma'am,  that's  wantenyou, 
av  you  plase." 

But!)  ladies  turned  suddenly,  and  beheld  James  standing 
with  his  usual  earnest  gaze  fixed  upon  tliem. 

"  1  often  spoke  to  you  about  that,  James,"  said  Lilly — • 
"  One  would  think  you  took  a  pleasure  in  startling  my 
mother.  Tell  Mrs.  Hasset,  your  mistress  will  feel  obliged 
by  her  walkiiic;  into  the  garden  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  1  will,  i\irris." 

"Take  a  pleasure ! — Ah,  fie !  Miss  Lilly,  I  didn't  thinkyou'd 


484    .  SUIL  DHUV, 

eay  that  at  all.  I'm  heavtbroAen  with  it  for  a  stoiy ;  what 
am  I  to  do  at  ailr  If  {  speak  ymili,  I'm  toalt  to  .'•po>k  lip, 
an'  if  I  si)8ak  up,  I  get  crossness.  V/oll,  I'm  soii);j.  Miss 
— 'twas uiikuounst  I  doiio  it.  To  the  gn-.len,  I'll  t^jll  he-?"' 
and  away  he  strode,  hunimiag  to  himself  the  populai-  disticii. 

"The  finest  cHvarsion  that's  under  the  sun, 
Is  to  sit  be  the  fire  till  the  praties  are  done." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  ladies  were  joined  by  their  good- 
natured  visiter,  who,  after  the  usual  ceremonies  of  greeting 
had  passed,  proceeded,  witli  a  face  of  deep  condolence  and 
satisfaction,  strangely  yet  visibly  blended,  to  unburden  her 
heart  of  its  freig'itage  of  bad  tidings. 

"  You  have  not  heard  the  news  ?''  she  said,  glan:ing  at 
*;')e  ovos  of  both  iicr  auditors  in  turn. 
'  What  news  ?" 

"  Well,  I'm  gl.id  you  have  not  yet  Irard  it,  f  )r  I  wis  on 
■.feJnis  for  fear  some  thougiiile-s  p.T^on  would  have  blun- 
dered upon  it  before  you,  without  any  preparation.  You, 
I  am  sure,  Lilly,"  she  continued,  "  liave  too  much  good 
sense  to  let  it  take  hold  of  your  mind." 

Lilly  paused  fur  a  fe^'  seconds  while  slie  looki^l  upon  the 
now  serene  and  cloudless  heavens,  and  then  turning  upon 
the  communicative  lady  an  eye  as  liglitsome  and  as  s  niling 
as  the  blue  expanse  itself,  she  repeated  her  interrogatory. 

"  Robeit  Kuniba,"  said  Mrs.  h asset,  dwelling  on  every 
^ord  «ith  the  distinctness  which  the  iinp:)rtance  of  the  oc- 
casion warranted — ''Uobert  Kumba  is  going  to  be  married!" 

"Wiiat  is  it  Mrs.  Hasset  says,  my  dear?"  said  Mrs. 
Byrne  to  her  daughter. 

"Site  says  that  Mv.  Kumba  is  going  to  be  married, 
ina'ani,"  repliid  the  latter,  smiling,  and  adapting  lier  voice 
more  judiciously  than  James  had  done  to  the  con.lition  of 
the  aged  widow's  auricular  powei^s. 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Ilasset  couiiuued,  a  little  annoyed  by  the 
perfect  equauiailiy  wiili  which  her  dislracdug  iuleliigencd 


THE  COINER.  485 

was  rccelvel  bj  tne  party  sTio  consklcrcc?  most  interested, 
'•  I  {>i\va_v3  suspected  that  it  was  not  for  nothing  ail  tliose 
fine  aiceradons  vere  taking  place  about  his  t'avin.  It  was 
only  yestenlny  evening  I  learned  that  he  had  proposed  for 
Miss  Jemima  Blaney.  She  is  a  pretty  girl,  indeed,  and  has 
a  nice  ready-money  fortune,  but  I  know  where  Mr.  Kumba 
might  have  a  better  clioice.  However,  that's  past  and  gone, 
now.  If  not  a  better,  at  least  a  fairer  and  more  honour- 
able one — that  I  will  say.  But  youth — money  and  youth 
are  everything  with  tiie  men  in  these  days — g'rls  begin  to 
be  looked  upon  as  old  maids  now,  at  an  age  when  they 
would  be  hardly  suffered  to  go  into  company  in  my  time." 

The  conversation  was  again  interrupted  by  the  entrance 
of  .James,  wlio  now  approaclicd  them  with  a  double  pro- 
portion of  importance  and  astonishment  in  his  look  and 
manner.  Not  forgetful  of  his  former  error,  he  now  com- 
numicated  his  intelligence  to  Lilly,  in  a  whisper  which  was 
noi  lost  on  the  (juick  ear  of  Mrs.    Hasset. 

"  Ts  it  possible  ?"  she  exclaimed.     "  How  sudden. !" 

"  Not  altogether  so,"  said  Lilly,  endeavouring  to  com- 
mand the  agitation  which  made  her  frame  tremble ;  "he 
wrote  to  my  mother  a  few  days  since,  and  we  appointec 
this  morning  to  receive  him." 

"  Well,  I  rejoice  most  sincerely  at  it,  indeed — and  I  wiL 
not  stay  to  encumber  you  \\ith  my  presence — for  I  know 
how  I  felt  on  these  occasions  myself  in  my  young  days — 
when  poor  Hasset — ah  ! — well,  good  morning,  Lilly,  I'll 
not  detain  yon" — then  turning  back  as  if  struck  by  a  sud- 
den tliouiiht — "it  would  be  as  \\ell,  perhaps,  if  you  said 
nothing  of  that  report,  as  it  happens  to  bo  faL-e — and  it 
would  only  annoy  the  poor  young  man.  Some  malicious 
person  that  set  it  afloat,  I  dare  say,  to  make  us  uneasy." 

As  the  good  lady  left  the  garden,  she  was  met  by  a 
gentleman  in  black,  wi.h  a  long  skirted  coat  and  slashed 
sleeves,  acravat  neatly  edged  with  the  finest  Flanders  lace, 
a  periw  ig  of  reasonable   conipais,  surmounted  by-  a  smal' 


486  sUiL  2nuv, 

glo?sy  hat,  clorked  silk  stockings!,  and  sqnare-toed  f^ljoes, 
with  neat  siniill  buckles — ail,  in  iact,  tliat  could  be  esteemed 
characteiistic  of  gravity  and  respectabiiity  united.  He 
bowed  to  Mrs,  Hasset  as  he  passed,  and  entered  the  gar- 
den in  some  trepidation  and  anxiety. 

"  It  is  a  bad  sign  to  go  a  wooing  in  mourning,"  said  the 
hidy,  shaking  her  wise  head  as  she  gazed  after  him.  "  I 
hope  no  harm  will  come  of  it." 

•' The  stranger,  in  the  meantime,  pissed  from  the  gar- 
den to  the  summer-house,  in  Avhich  Lilly  Byrne  ami  her 
mother  were  expec  iiig  him.  Even  his  nv.uily  iieart  began 
to  f;iil  him  when  he  cauglit  the  tir^t  glimpse  of  thfir  mourn- 
ing drapery  through  the  scanty  foliage  of  the  sj  ring  lioughs. 
Tue  sorrows  of  the  past — the  afflictions  which  ids  o.vn 
«rantonness  hid  occasioned,  rushed  back  upon  his  memory 
in  a  daik  and  overpowering  torrent,  and  uuns'rved  his  ro- 
sokition.  Some  slight  motion  in  tiie  arbour,  however,  ro- 
called  !um,  presently,  to  a  sense  of  the  necessity  of  self- 
po.^session;  j'.nd  quickly  arousing  Idmselftrom  hisde[tressioii, 
he  w;dked  forward,  without  risking  the  return  lA'  his  evil 
recollections  by  a  second  pause. 

It  was  an  embirrassing  meeting  to  all  par'ies — tor  the 
will  must  always  remain  in  a  state  of  embarrassment  where 
the  judgment  and  the  aftections  are  at  war,  and  neiilier  can 
:nd!cite  the  extent  to  which  the  otiier  on;;ht  to  be  indnl;.ed. 
Natui'e,  howevei',  geueraliy  asserts  her  own  right  to  dictate 
on  such  occasions. 

Kumb;),  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  had  commenced  a  con- 
fused and  hesitating  speech  abou;his  "gratitude  for  the  In- 
dulgence which — "  when  sud' enly  abandoning  Idnisell'to 
his  natural  feelings,  he  flung  Inmseif  with  a  burst  of  gilef 
at  the  feet  of  ihe  young  laiiy,  and  exclaimed — "  I  cannot 
do  it  I — Oh,  Liih — Mis.  Bvrne,  say  that  von  will  forgive 
me?" 

The  tears  of  the  penitent  did  not  fall  done.    MissByrna 


THJB  COINER.  4S7 

was  ccmpolTcd  in  'oer  asif  ntion  to  peek  from  lici-  mot'icr  tha 
support  which  it  was  her  wont  to  afford  to  trie  old  l.uiv, 
while  she  ezerted  herself  to  recover  some  degrees  of  calm- 
Des?. 

"  Lot  ns  not  distress  my  motlier,"  she  said  at  length — 
"  onr  answer  to  your  letter  must  have  shown  you  that  our 
hatred  w-as  not  inveterate.  Ah,  Robert,"  !^he  continued 
with  a  smile — "  we  have  both  had  cause  enough  to  learn  the 
wisdom  ot  forgetfulness.  Here  is  my  hiind.  Let  us  talk 
no  more  cf  the  past,  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

In  this  position  of  af^'.iirs,  we  may  be  pardoned  for  suf- 
fering a  veil  to  fall  over  the  group,  -as  \\e  fear,  with  all  his 
benevolence,  tlie  reader  would  feel  iiitle  interest  in  fo  io.v- 
ing  the  parties  through  tiie  pisaceful  and  unruffled  history  of 
the  fortunes  of  their  latter  tiavs. 

lu  less  than  ayear  jifrcr  this  orcurrence,onr  little  heroine, 
Lilly  r.yrne,  was  rewarded  for  her  constancy  and  her  en- 
durance, lltibi.'rt  Kumba,  was  once  more  received  as  a 
welojme  guest  at  Dmmi-eanlon,  and  once  more  took  iiis 
place  iit  Lilly's  woik-table.  Again  Lill}^  resumed  her  stout 
fliiwer.  d-i^ilk?,  her  checks  recovered  their  bloom,  and  veri- 
fied Mrs.  Has-set's  prediction  that  she  would  ''forget  all  be- 
fore she  was  twice  mariied." 

I»Ir.  Ciithbv'rr,  nnhappily,  never  recovered  his  money,  but 
he  had  the  satisfa  tion  ot  lodging  Maney  in  j  til  for  the 
swindiing,  Mr.  Shine  (though  at  the  evident  risk  of  his  own 
lojjuta  ion)  undertaking  to  appear  in  corroboration — and 
also  of  razing  to  the  ground  the  hold  of  the  gang,  and  tell- 
ing the  whole  story  (with  no  other  variation  than  tint  he 
toitk  care  to  make  himself  the  hero  of  the  nigiit)  (mcii  a 
year  at  Drumscanlon,  when  he  came  for  Lilly  Kumba's  tull- 
boinids  a'/aiii  the  fair  of  Cork. 

"  I  declare,  miss ma'am  I  mane,  and  I  ax  p:irdon 

for  the  mistake,"  said  James,  as  he  wished  the  brido 
joy  after  the  ceremony  had  passed,  "  I  declare  I  hid  soo.u- 


488  SUIL   DHUV, 

tlien  inwardlv,  you  see,  that  always  told  me  tliis  would  be 

the  wav  of  it  in  the  end "  and  here  he  pized  at  arnra 

JLiigth  upon  the  gorgeous  favour  which  envtluped  his  own 
hat.  "To  be  sure  1  was,  greatly  frightened  that  niglit — 
but,  says  I,  taken  lieart,  what  liurt?  Av  they  don't  burn 
the  house,  we'll  get  help  in  time,  please  Heaven  ;  and  I 
took  care  they  shouTnt  do  that,  for  I  made  the  thatcher 
put  a  big  bit  o'  the  luserathocaun  (house-leek)  in  the 
thalch,  so  as  av  they  were  setting  tire  to  it  from  this  until 
to-morrow  morning  'twould  never  light,  any  more  than 
the  stone  wall  itself." 

A  shoit  space  may  suffice  to  tell  the  fortunes  of  the  re- 
maining characters  of  our  history.  The  unhappy  father, 
disappointed  in  all  the  expectations  with  which  he  returned 
to  his  native  land,  and  unwilling  to  live  in  the  ruined  cot- 
tage where  every  object  reminded  him  of  some  perished 
friend  or  vani>hed  hapjiiness  of  his  youth,  returned  with  his 
widowed  daughter  to  Germany,  regretting  from  the  very 
core  of  his  heart,  the  thirst  of  gain  which  had  induced  him 
to  commit  to  the  uncertain  keeping  of  a  stranger  the  charge 
of  his  domestic  affections — ati'ections  which  he  knew  not, 
until  they  were  thus  blasted,  to  have  been  so  necessary  to 
his  peace  of  mind. 

His  daughter  followed  him  willingly.  From  the  moment 
of  her  husband's  death,  she  never  once  uttered  a  complaint, 
never  once  upraidi^d  her  father  with  the  part  he  had  acted 
in  the  scene  which  we  have  just  detailed,  but  seemed  anx- 
ious by  her  resignation  and  her  affectionate  devotion  to  all 
his  wishes,  to  blot  away  from  his  remembrance  the  record 
of  her  early  disobedience  and  ingratitude. 

In  this  she  was  very  successful,  and  both  lingered  out 
the  remainder  of  their  days  with  as  much  quietude  of  spiiit, 
as  those  who  have  nothing  left  on  earth  to  wish  or  hope, 
can  experience.  They  never  spoke  of  home  or  past  times — 
but  their  hearts  had  been  too  sorely  smitten  to  permit  them 


THE    COIXF.R.  489 

to  seek  refn2;e  in  tlie  formjitioti  of  new  attndiments  from 
the  iiii-inorv  of  the  old,  Jiiul  lost.  Their  hfo  was  lonely, 
therefore,  ihoiigh  jieaceful. 


The  taleof  SriL  Dftuv  owes  its  origin  to  an  incident  re- 
lated in  an  old  Magazine,  wliieh  ft'll  into  the  hands  of  the 
writer,  at  an  early  age.  A  traveller  in  a  lonely  part  of 
some  conntry  or  another,  stopped  to  dine  at  an  iim  on  the 
I'oad  side,  and  afterward  resumed  his  journey.  'Jbwards 
midnight  his  horse  having  lost  a  shoe,  lie  knocked  at  a 
biacksmith's  forge,  to  have  the  evil  remedied,  'i'he  latter 
giuiiilili-d  miK-h  at  being  disturbed,  at  such  an  hdur,  but 
was  silent  when  the  traveller  handed  him  a  guinea  fi)r  his 
truuljle.  Touelied  liv  this  liberality,  the  blacksmith  bade 
the  former  turn  back  as  there  was  danger  on  the  road. 
The  traveller  replied  that  he  was  well  aimed  and  had  no 
fear.  'Jhe  blacksmiih  became  urgent,  and  finding  he 
oould  not  prevail,  bade  the  tiavelkr  look  to  his  pis- 
tols. The  latter  to  his  astonishment  found  the  charges 
of  both  were  drawn  !  'J"he  blacksmith  then  showed  him 
the  horse's  hoofs,  and  let  him  see  that  the  clenching  of  the 
nails  had  been  filed  away,  evidently,  with  the  intent  of 
disabling  the  animal  from  continning  the  journey,  beyond 
a  certain  point.  At  the  request  of  the  traveller,  botli 
defects  were  remedied,  and  the  hitter,  in  opjiosition  to  the 
urgent  entreaties  of  the  blacksmith,  continued  his  jour- 
ney. Alx)Ut  a  mile  from  the  forge  he  was  encountered 
by  a  Iiighwayman,  who  seized  his  horse's  bridle,  and  bade 
him  deliver  up  his  money.  'J"he  traveller  rapidly  desired 
the  robber  on  ])enl  of  his  life  to  let  go  the  rein.  'J'he 
latter  laughed  at  his  threats.  'j"he  traveller  presented  a 
jjistol, — the  robber  still  mocked  at  him.     The  way-farer 


490  SUIL   DIIUV,    THE    COINER. 

at  leno'th  fired,  nnd  shot  liis  assailant  lliroiigh  (lie  lioart. 
He  then  alighted,  ]ilaced  the  body  across  tlic  saddle-bow, 
and  rode  back  to  the  forge,  where  by  a  light  lie  discovered 
that  the  wretched  highwayman  was  no  other  than  the 
landlord  of  the  Inn,  who  had  been  long  in  concert  with 
the  blacksmith,  and  made  an  easy  prey  of  his  guests  by 
the  practice  of  rendering  their  jiistols  useless.  He  fell  a 
victim  in  this  instance,  to  his  confidence  in  the  infallibil- 
ity of  his  own  precautions,  while  the-  traveller  owed  his 
safety,  to  the  liberality  he  manifested  at  the  blacksmith's 
forge. 


THS   EHD. 


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